


Cross

by Cyrelia_J



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Artistic Garak, Betrayal, Dark, Explicit Language, Fantasy, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intercrural Sex, Intrigue, M/M, Oral Sex, Possible Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6974038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/pseuds/Cyrelia_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Julian Bashir was betrayed by Elim Garak and left for dead when the Sultan Picard was murdered. But Garak himself had also died that night; Julian never believed it for a moment.</p><p>With the War Night Festival approaching, Garak, very much alive returns for one final mission- to kill the Sisko the Emissary, the current Sultan of the Federation. Julian has been given a mission as well; seduce his old lover, and then kill him. And Kelas Parmak just may be the key.</p><p>But Julian's past holds its own dark secrets as well. Even if he can't remember what they are.</p><p>“Do you… do you think I’m already… damned to the fires, Garak?”<br/>"Two words... All you need to say are those two words."<br/>“...Alright... you win... please… please… Save me...”<br/>“Your wish is my command, my dear." </p><p>AU (aliens still aliens)  Garak/Bashir/Parmak in some fashion or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Die is Cast

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, I'll try to keep this short. So I have no idea where this came from. Like a few hours of listening to Cheb Mami and this thing crawled its way out of my head. I had the idea to write an AU that takes place on Earth in a sense but on a world with several of the Star Trek races having evolved on the same planet. Writing it "Earth but not Earth" also gave me an opportunity to mix and mesh some history, some cultures and to have a lot of fun. So I want to let everyone know that plenty of things will bear a strong resemblance to those on Earth as far as customs, religions, social constructs, what have you but I've deliberately avoided mentioning any specific terms to hopefully avoid any confusion. 
> 
> There's also going to be a lot more going on than meets the eye; after all things with Garak, as we know, are never quite as simple as they seem. Now the prologue starts out in a linear fashion but future chapters will be telling a parallel of both past and present. C&C is always welcome, and thanks in advance for reading!

“For a man supposedly on his death bed you seem to be holding up quite well.” The words come from a tall man standing in the doorway, a cloth pack nearly as large as he is hanging off his shoulders. He’s slim- one can see that his wrists are slender though he wears many layers covered with a heavy brown cloak. One can still see his eyes from that cowl; they’re hazel, piercing, and hard as they look at the older man seated in front of him. Julian Subatoi Bashir steps into the dimly lit room where a man with gray hair swept back from a high forehead sits cross legged on a large cushion. There’s a heavy wooden table in between them both, a large blanket coming from each side. Underneath it burns hot coals when it’s cold, a pit dug down into a dirt floor remains to hold them, even as that dirt has been covered over with fine aqua and white tiles. The older man rises spryly, a smile on his face hesitant, but hopeful.

“It’s good to see you, son,” he starts with step forward. He’s dressed in a long white shift that falls well below the knee. The thick mustache doesn’t hide that smile as it grows. Julian remains frowning, mouth clearly downturned even beneath the short thick beard of his face. He doesn’t move as the man, as his father advances, catching him in a hearty embrace. Julian’s arms remain stiff at his side as he speaks- not to his father- but to the older woman who’s appeared behind him neatly blocking his escape back through the doorway.

“You told me he was sick, mother. You lied to me.” Julian stares at the floor, the tile an unfamiliar sight to his eyes. He shrugs his father off and turns back to see if she might move. She crosses her arms in front of her, a short but elegant figure looking up at him dressed in a dark blue floor length gown. Her head and neck are covered with a brilliant violet scarf- a gift from him when he was a child that hardly appears to have ever been worn.

“Jules, I know you and your father have had your differences but it was important that he speak with you.”

“Don’t blame your mother, Jules,” his father interrupts holding up a hand. “She only did as I asked. It’s been too long for all this nonsense, don’t you think?”

“Don’t call me that,” Julian answers tersely. “You know that’s not my name anymore.” He sets the pack down unceremoniously. It kicks up a small cloud of dust. There’s tightness around his father’s eyes at the action when Julian shoves it to the wall with his foot. “Suppose I won’t be needing any of my supplies now, will I?”

“Have a seat.” His father invites him to the table, a look to his mother sending her back to the kitchen when she appears ready to scold him. “We didn’t want to lie to you, son. But when you refuse to answer my letters, when all the messengers I send return telling me that a man fitting my son’s exact description claims that my son is _dead-_ ”

“Dead to you,” Julian fires back, raising his voice. “I told you I never wanted to speak to you ever again. I told you when I left that you and I have nothing further to say to each other. I told you that I’d do every damn thing you wanted out of me, that I’d be the perfect son, that I wouldn’t shame our family any further. You told me I’d never see you again. I’ve done as you asked, father. You don’t have to worry about bearing the humiliation of having a son who’s a-”

“Please!” His voice raises and one can imagine that same thunder summoned years ago in the same room. “Do not speak that word in this house.” Julian laughs bitterly as he shakes his head. He removes his cloak, throwing it across the room as well, adding to the pile, watching with satisfaction as it kicks up a second dust cloud. He spares a glance for the shoes resting neatly in the entryway that he passed through as he clomps loudly to the table. The beige overcoat he wears is loose, fastened high to the neck hanging down over loose white pants. Julian squares his shoulders. He doesn’t sit back like a petulant child as he once had, but looks straight ahead as he crosses his legs on the large cushion. His hair falls to his shoulders as it spills from beneath the brown turban wrapped around his head. It’s a sign of his status; a hard earned appointment as the sultan’s most trusted personal physician.

“I’d forgotten that the truth is not a thing to be spoken in this house.”

“And what of respect for your father? Or have you become so worldly now that you don’t believe that to be an affront to the almighty either?” Julian’s eyes flash angrily.

“It doesn’t matter what I _believe_ father; that’s what you said, right? The world doesn’t see my beliefs, the world doesn’t see the sin that swims in my head like a black ugly ocean. Well the world doesn’t see the damn good intentions that you always claim to have either and nor do I. We see lies, deceit, and a self serving man who wouldn’t send for me unless he wanted something.”

“That isn’t true,” His mother returns with coffee, the aroma preceding her as she sets the tray in the center of the table. She’s calm, a soft spoken distance as she sets the cups. “You know we love you.”

“I know that my mother dresses like I’m a stranger,” Julian answers, looking for any sugar or cream. There isn’t any. The tray is set to his father’s tastes. “Should I not even look at you then? If father only wanted you here so I don’t speak to him disrespectfully, I’d rather you didn’t put yourself out.”

“We had company earlier.” She, pours the three of them coffee. “You shouldn’t be so affronted by everything.”

“Let me guess, another one of Father’s friends with a business proposal.”

“I don’t mess with those silly things anymore. You can see we’ve done rather well for ourselves these last few years. But that struggle, you know I always wanted to give you and your mother the best life. And you have it now, don’t you Julian? Whatever curses you may throw my way-”

“Don’t.” Julian swallows dry. “Don’t you _dare_ act as if any of that credit belongs to you.” He snorts. “Right, what am I saying, I forget myself of course, honorable, noble _father_ I wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for your sacrifices. Ahh…” Julian shakes his head, staring into that black cup. “Forgive me, what can I _possibly_ do for you, father?” He doesn’t need to look up to see the anger darken his father’s face. Julian’s hands cradle the cup, expecting the storm, watching the faint ripples in the dark liquid. He hears a whisper passing between them politely ignoring it as he stares to his left, to a brightly woven old tapestry that used to relax him when he was a child. He would look at that black and red crisscross of shapes for hours then; before he knew the difference between a circle and a square or even any difference between himself and the rest of the world.

“You know son, you’re right.” His father’s contrition prompts him to turn curiously. “If it wasn’t for your work in the capital I wouldn’t have made the connections that I have these past few years.” Julian sets the cup down.

“You want something.”

“I want to _give_ you something. I want to give you an opportunity.”

“I think you’ve given me all the opportunities that I can stand for one lifetime.”

“Julian-” He hears his mother’s voice scolding him as he takes a long drink of the hot bitter brew. He’s always preferred Tarkalian tea extra sweet.

“Leave us, Amsha,” he hears his father say. “I promise, no fighting.” He watches his father smile at her. He watches his mother smile back and he feels a sludge sloshing heavy in the pit of his stomach. Julian takes another long drink as his mother leaves with her coffee and gives his father a kiss on the cheek. She spares him a brief afterthought of a touch of her hand to his shoulder.

            “Is there something that mother shouldn’t hear?” He cannot hide the concern from his voice and nearly curses himself for it. His father shakes his head.

“You know your mother doesn't like to talk about your... past transgressions."

"Then why are we talking about them now? I've already made my peace with what I've done."

"You know how I feel about your peace."

"Of course, the peace of a non-believer is the peace known to children and animals. And I’m neither of those. But I know you didn't sully your tongue with lies for this old argument, father." His father opens his mouth then closes it again stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"No. I called you here because I know that no matter where you may have strayed in the past, that you’re a man of integrity. You’re a man who loves this Empire. You’re my only son, and I know I can trust you.”

“You sound like one of the sycophants at court clamoring for His Majesty’s favor.” 

“Julian please. I need you to forget all the ways that you think I’ve failed you. I need you to put that aside. If you can’t make your heart light so be it but listen to me, son, _listen._ ”

“I don’t understand. What’s going on? If you’re in some sort of trouble...”

“Not me, not us, the entire Empire is at stake!” Julian sees his father’s eyes dart towards the window. The heavy drapes billow faintly with the chill of the night air through the closed shutters. “The _Empire_ , Julian. Every man, woman, and child. The lizards are finally making their move.” Julian is tense, frowning hard, eyes also darting to those dark curtains.

“The Cardassians, the Klingons, the Romulans, you sound like every other madman shouting conspiracy theories on the street corner of the capital. There hasn’t been a war in over twenty years. Not since the Accords and none of them dare break those. Not since his Majesty…” Julian’s eyes go wide and he leans in, speaking even more softly, almost conspiratorially. “Is it his Majesty? Is he in danger?”

“What I’m about to tell you Julian, is strictly between the two of us it _cannot_ leave this room. I don’t even know if I can trust that we’re not being watched now but I could think of no safer place with the time that we have. We don’t know how far the court has been infiltrated. You cannot trust anyone, you cannot tell _anyone_.”

“Wait… surely you can’t mean Security Chief Odo or Worf the Chief of His Majesty’s guard?”

“No one Julian. The Maquis-”

“The Ma-” Julian immediately quiets his voice. “The Maquis? Those terrorists who destroyed those Cardassian settlements near the borderlands? Is that where this is coming from? Does mother know that you’re involved with them?”

“Of course your mother knows. She didn’t want you involved in this, she begged me not to contact you.”

“Like she begged you not to have take me away for those treaments?” Julian crosses his arms and bows his head, eyes closes tight. “Whatever it is, whatever fields they want scorched, whatever water they want poisoned, the answer is no. I’m not a killer. I’m a doctor.”

“You are a good man, Julian. But you are a man with flaws, just as I have my flaws.” He catches Julian’s eyes. “And there are times when we are called to use even our flaws, our greatness weaknesses to serve. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Julian’s mouth is tight, a thin white line. He doesn’t answer that question.

“Ten years ago,” his father continues, “You met a man, a Cardassian man, Elim Garak. You and I are the only ones who know the results of your meeting with that man.”

“Do you really believe,” Julian’s mouth twists as he looks at the whorls on the dark wooden table. “That his Majesty’s grace is so strong as to effect the very thoughts, the whispers of his subjects. Do you truly think that no one at the court speaks of how the vaunted Doctor Bashir was once a filthy sodomite who eagerly spread his legs like a delicate maiden for the lizard man that seduced him? Some of them,” Julian raises his voice, a sharp bark of ugly laughter clawing up from his throat. “Some of them even say that it was me, you know. They say it was me who wantonly caught his eye and led him to my bed.” Julian takes a long drink, his hand shaking as he nearly drops the porcelain. “Should I go on? Should I list off the things they say I did to earn my position while you tell me that no one else knows?” His father’s eyes are soft and his hand reaches across the table. Julian looks down, nearly jumps at that contact, but remains deathly still. His father’s fingers are shorter than his- thicker- his palm smaller. His hand is warm and Julian feels like a child again as he turns in that tight grip uncertainly.

“I remember ten years ago, the son who said he would never speak to me again knocking on the door in the middle of the night. I remember when he wept, when he begged on his knees for forgiveness, when he told me everything that had happened with that man, _that night_.” Julian’s eyes begin a wavering blur as he blinks that away, breathing deeply. He reluctantly pulls his hand back looking unfocused at his palm.

“Why are we talking about this, father?”

“You and I are the only ones who know the _true_ results of your meeting with that man. Everything you told me that night, everything you asked me to take to my grave I’ve held here,” He thumps his chest once hard, emphatically. “The Maquis- the northerner, Eddington asked me how could I be so sure that I could trust you. I told them nothing of that night. When they asked me how I could be so sure that the Cardassian’s lover could be trusted not to betray us, I said _nothing_.”

“ _Why_ are you telling me this?”

Julian watches anxiously as his father stands up, circling the table slowly, deliberately. His father puts both hand on his shoulders as he kneels down, turning Julian to face him.

“Because it didn’t end with Elim Garak slaying Picard, slaying the Peacemaker. It didn’t end with the fire. The Cardassians thought that surely Wesley would be the only heir still able to ascend the throne, that the boy would be no match for the cunning of the rulers of the last Five Great Kingdoms. But they didn’t count on his Majesty, they didn’t count on Sisko the Emissary stepping forward to lead us out of that darkness. And now that his Majesty is going to sign an alliance with the Bajorans, they cannot wait any longer. Gul Dukat would go to war but the Emperor, Enabran Tain would sooner eliminate the problem at the source. As we say, he would sooner cut off the head of the snake than waste the lives of his own.”

“Garak!” Julian practically hisses, his eyes getting wide as he stares at his father. “You can’t mean-” 

            “The reports say he was murdered in his shop by three men. He hasn’t been seen since then and we both watched them hang for it. Is that what you were going to say?”

“You know I didn’t watch silently. Even if I couldn’t say why, even if I had to pretend, if I had any sway at all... But they wouldn’t listen, the Cardassians were too busy howling for blood. But you know just as I do that he was alive, that it was-”

“The Maquis know that you’ve been trying to find him. And they’re not the only ones. You have to tell me now Julian, truthfully, honestly, that night, _did he see you_?” Julian’s hands shake as they clamp over his father’s, that tremor blossoming forth until his entire body feels the thrum. 

“No... No, it’s not possible. He couldn’t... they can’t hear... I could see... no... no he never knew. He thought I was asleep. He drugged me to sleep. He didn’t know that I wouldn’t... Do you know... Do you have any idea the hell that I’ve been through because of him?! Do you have any idea what he did to me?! Why... _Why_ are you asking me these questions?!”

“He’s going to be at the War Night Festival, Julian. Do you understand? It’s nearly impossible to get intelligence out of Cardassia with the way the Obsidian Order runs the Empire. But he’s going to be there accompanying Emperor Tain and that’s when we know he’s going to have to strike. It will be his only opportunity.”

“How could you possibly?... How _could_ he? There’s no way that a common man could ever get so close to his Majesty. I need a minute you’re not... you’re not giving me time to just...” Julian shuts his eyes tightly. 

“He’s Enabran Tain’s son, Julian. The tailor, the spy, the _assassin_ , is Tain’s son!” Julian’s eyes snap back open in disbelief.

“There’s no way...”

“Who else but a prince, can get close to his Majesty, Julian? Who else but a star can hope to reach the sun?” Julian feels the squeeze to his shoulders, his body stilling careful almost disturbingly calm as his father speaks next. “And who else but you, can get close enough to that star to yank it out of the heavens?” Julian blinks, breathing deeply, slowly, moving his father’s hands, looking down with an unreadable expression. “Tell me again, Julian. Did Elim Garak see you that night? Does he know...”

“ _No_. No, he never saw me...” Julian looks at his father eyes almost completely empty. “And he doesn’t know, that I know he betrayed me... So help me, father, if a single word of this is a lie...”

“Then let me be stricken dead now. Me, your mother, I swear it, every word of it!” Julian is silent a long pause as his father watches him, as his mother peers around the doorway watching them both seeming to hold her breath.

 

“Alright. Tell me what I have to do.”

 


	2. Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present Julian sets his plan into motion with the help of an unexpected player. Past Julian meets Elim Garak for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working out the specifics of the end, but I've got a pretty good idea of what's to come as far as schedule, plot, and the like. No real warnings in this part but as for the remainder well, we'll just have to wait and see. Anyway, I want to thank everyone for reading and for joining me with this crazy idea. As you can see there were a few major tags changes. I'm so sorry, I had this whole thing planned a certain and then yeah... but that's the last major tag change except for possible character additions. C&C is always welcome.

“Quark, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t gamble?”

“You don’t drink, you don’t gamble, you won’t even _sit down_ ,” comes the complaint from a diminutive man behind a makeshift wooden bar that almost seems too tall for him. He stands on a large wooden beam running the length of the bar, eyes scanning the inside of the bright tent, surveying the spinning dabo wheel. His eyes are calculating, teeth sharp, and he’s garishly clothed in a green silk shirt, a red vest trimmed in gold layered over it smartly. He shoots Julian a sour look. “It _unnatural_ ,” he declares.

“Unnatural? Charging five slips of latinum as a seating fee is what ought to be unnatural,” Julian retorts taking a drink of tea.

“A man’s gotta make money around here somehow. I need to offset my costs, doctor.”

“Costs? Really? I thought you made nearly a year’s profit this one week alone.”

“Stick to medicine, doctor, you don’t have the lobes for business. You’re forgetting I need to pay the expenses to keep Quark’s operating while I’m not there. I need to pay Rom. I need to pay someone to _watch_ Rom.”

“You might just consider closing up shop during the festival- the capital’s a ghost town anyway.” There’s a look that passes over Quark’s face, a look of such disdain that Julian is rather impressed with it. Quark shakes his head as he stalks off muttering about “hoo-mans” and their lack of business acumen. Julian, for his part smiles as he takes another sip of his tea looking toward the flap of the tent as it parts open, keeping his back to the solid wood of the bar.

“Jadzia!” he exclaims when he catches sight of the woman who enters. She’s tall- easily looking him in the eyes, her blue eyes twinkling brilliantly with mischief as she raises her hand. There’s a chainmail gauntlet wrapped around her wrist, and she’s still wearing the mail shirt of the fighters, a splash of tan spots on the sides of her face trailing beneath that shirt. Her hair is pulled back into a long braid, mussed and sweat damp as she walks towards him noisily. The sword at her side hits a seated man in the shoulder though she hardly seems to notice. The man opens his mouth, looking about to protest when he sees the culprit and immediately closes his mouth.

“Julian! I’m so sorry I’m late. I came straight from the training grounds but then I ran into Morn and well… you know how he goes on.”

“Don’t worry about it. Quark was just telling me about the em… what did he call it, the over and under on your victory.” Julian indicates a large wooden board with several names painted on it, Jadzia at the top the largest in a metallic blue script where Quark has her at a +400. “I think that’s because you drew Martok from the Klingon Empire in the first bracket. Minus twelve hundred I think is what they have him at… is that good or bad?”

Jadzia laughs dragging him towards a table near the open flap.

“It means if Gowron had an army of him, we’d all be eating _rahkt_ and drinking bloodwine right now. It means that Quark’s going to rake in a fortune when I win.” She smiles mischievously as Quark appears, the mention of his name sending him fluttering over- or likely, Julian figures, the fee for the table. Julian’s already reaching into his sleeve for his purse purposely not hearing any offers from Jadzia to pay. He throws down the latinum slips as Quark produces a bottle seemingly out of nowhere.

“Did my darling call for bloodwine?”

“Your darling?” Julian scoffs already counting out the extra for the drinks, seeing Jadzia’s eyes light up. “Weren’t you back there shouting a few minutes ago that only a fool would wager a week’s salary on a female to best a tube grub in a matter of combat let alone the head of the house of Martok?” Julian pays, knowing that Quark wouldn’t offer his own mother a free seat and glass of wine, let alone his... really Julian doesn’t even know what to call Jadzia and Quark; Jadzia as always reminded him to refrain from being so quick to label things.

“You know it’s just business, Julian,” Jadzia answers giving Quark’s lobe a playful rub that makes Julian take a few extra moments in messing with his pocket.

“Dearest, you’re going to have to stop that,” Quark stammers.

“You know how Ferengi are when it comes to their business.”

“Yes, businessss… Actually I ah… need to see to something…” Julian hears another stuttered excuse before Quark departs in a rush. He can imagine Jadzia sneaking a few slips of latinum from his pockets as he does, but finds himself distracted, anxiously looking out to the bustling tent city at night. 

The colorful display as the citizens of all six great kingdoms have gathered greets his eyes, a kaleidoscope of fabrics. Those from The Cardassian Union, as far out as the Klingon and Romulan Empires, the Vulcans to the west, and the Andorrans have come as is the custom to meet here at the heart of the Federation of United Kingdoms. The heart being the vast desert stretching out like an endless sea of sand, brilliant white near the capital, shifting with the various mineral deposits, to the rust red where the War Night Festival is held. It was said that Kirk the Brave fought the Mighty Gorn for three nights and three days for the ancient land until the lands were soaked with the bloods of the veritable gods; Julian himself, never having seen any evidence of some other reptilian civilization tended to chalk it up to simple geology.

He smiles, seeing two soldiers from the capital escorting a vibrant, raucous older woman through the streets; Lwaxana of the Fifth House of Betazed if he recalls, said to have the gift of the heart’s eye. _And a fine knack for getting into mischief even at her age._ That familiarity relaxes him, even as he sees a Cardassian hurry past- a man with short black hair neatly slicked back, pushing his spectacles up as he hurries with several bolts of fabric. Julian averts his eyes quickly, nearly jumping when he finds that Jadzia is studying him intently from behind that glass.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

“What? Who, Quark? Oh, I’m sure this is all some great gamble no matter who wins your fight tomorrow, though I don’t see how you ever convinced his Majesty that you’d be a more suitable candidate for the Tournament than Worf. Half the ministers still cross to the other side of the street when you walk by muttering curses.”

“Not curses,” she corrects with an unrepentant grin, “Prayers of protection.”

“They ought to be protecting themselves from the latinum which can’t help but find its way into their pockets when we’ve got so many still without proper food.”

“You’re wondering if it’s him. If the man that Emperor Tain presented as his son this morning at the Gathering ceremony is him.” He remembers it well. Six royal families gathered on the massive dais to pay their respects, and even with his position in the Sultan’s entourage in the front, the height of the ancient stone steps towering to the heavens made it hard to see clearly in the bright sun of the morning as the backdrop. It was deliberate, of course. The most keen of archers couldn’t hit an elephant with that sun’s angle flitting in and out from the East. He’d heard the trumpets, he’d seen the two emerge beneath the green banner, but as hard as he looked he could make out little to cement his father’s claim that the man next to Emperor Tain was the spy, the assassin Elim Garak.

“You know that’s impossible.” Julian answers automatically. They said that the prince had returned from a long absence in the Bajoran Provinces and given the Union’s activity in the area it was entirely possible. But as far as Julian knew, he hadn’t been part of the coup that had overthrown the Central Command. Then again, little was known to outsiders after the diplomats had been dismissed and Tain had made his move to seize power. There had been worried whispers that Tain had far greater ambitions than even the rule of the Union, but that remained to be seen. And that was what Julian was here to stop.

“I know _you_ , Julian. I bet you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him.” Her flippant manner unnerves him and automatically, Julian looks to see if anyone had heard. He had done as he’d been instructed. He hadn’t told anyone of the meeting with his father, nor his true purpose for seeking out the Prince in the crowds, but he still worries as his father had that he may be watched.

“Jadzia, _please_ , we’re-”

“-not in the Capital, Julian, and even if we were you shouldn’t have to stay celibate for the rest of your life just to please everyone else.”

“That’s easy for a Trill to say.”

“It should be easy for anyone to say.”

“Yes well, it’s the decision I’ve made… just one of many, and besides, I have far too much work to do to worry about that sort of thing anyway.” He reaches into another sleeve pocket suddenly, pulling out a gold timepiece with a deep frown. He’d waited for Jadzia. He’d wanted to see her before the first round of the tournament tomorrow but now it very well may cause him to be late. 

He has a meeting tonight with Kelas Parmak, a respected doctor in Emperor Tain’s newly established court. Julian had met him earlier in the day. He was the Cardassian Union’s representative for the medical team of six tasked solely with overseeing the health of the tournament fighters. The moment Julian saw him he knew that this too had to be part of the plan. Julian had attended the 5 year festival for the first time five years ago. He’d taken in the crowds, the people and he watched, he observed. He met a lot of Cardassians, studied hundreds more, and yet in that time he’d never seen a Cardassian man who was anything like Kelas Parmak. 

Parmak’s hair was what had caught Julian’s attention first. It was long. Not just long but impossibly long, completely white as well falling down his back like the snowy peaks of the northern continent. But as he turned, looking at Julian, he didn’t seem as old as his hair would indicate though he wore a pair of silver spectacles. There was a slight stoop to his stance but it appeared almost genetic like mild kyphosis but he couldn’t be sure without prying. Julian knew that it could be hard to tell with Cardassians anyway as different as their skin was. He was tall, slender, but never seemed to tower over anyone he spoke with, instead subtly engaging down, a look of warm attentiveness on his face. When he looked at Julian it was with a gentle, engaging smile, eyes so stunning over those thin frames that Julian almost tripped over himself as he bowed slightly, not taking the liberty of a human handshake. Parmak had surprised him by taking clasping his right hand between both of his, not a jerky shake, but a light squeeze, that made Julian double blink and drop that eye contact before he made a fool out of himself.

Parmak was also the only one who hadn’t seen fit to comment on Julian’s age upon meeting him. Unlike the Klingon doctor, Kowag, who felt it necessary to remark that “he may have hair on his face but he surely doesn’t have any on his sac.” At least Kowag was the only one who actually laughed, though Julian would have sworn that the Vulcan, Sela’s mouth twitched just the slightest bit at that insult as well. Parmak had placed a hand on his shoulder and again, Julian was caught off guard by just how tactilely inclined the Cardassian was. It wasn’t merely him though; Julian could see him interact in the same manner with everyone who didn’t set any boundaries, and Julian found himself almost irrationally bristling whenever he watched those hands lightly brushing over another’s forearm. 

Julian’s father had told him that he needed to be on the medical team no matter what and until that moment that Parmak introduced himself, leaving the memory of blue eyes that only rivaled Garak’s, he didn’t understand. But then he understood. His father had said that there would be times when they must use their flaws to serve. He had thought that his father was speaking only of Garak, but watching Parmak carefully, seeming to watch him back, Julian felt a sick roiling in the pit of his stomach. That roil only tied itself into further knots when he looked over Parmak’s slim form covertly from behind one of the scrolls he was reviewing lusting, dreaming of that hair curtaining over some phantom lover. He’d shut his eyes and said a prayer to forgive himself for what he was about to do as he engaged Parmak with a proposition to compare notes to... get to know each other better. He didn’t know whether to scream or sing when Parmak suggested they meet in his tent that night. But it was the in that he needed. And he agreed eagerly

“More work?” Jadzia asks interrupting that train of thought, and he already sees her silently wave over his head to someone seated behind him- likely several someones. Julian rises with a bow, thankful that he won’t need to field any questions.

“You know the work of a doctor is never done, his commitment to heal, his dedication to his oath, he doesn’t sleep, and he doesn’t eat until he sees to his needy patients. That is his life.” Julian stands rather grandly. “And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Well I hope I don’t disappoint you tomorrow, Julian, but I don’t plan on requiring your services.” He sees her definitely catch someone’s eye behind him and he wisely moves out of the way. “You’ll have to settle for resetting Martok’s nose when I break that _petaQ’s_ face on my sword!” He sees her slam down the heavy cup and with an indulgent smile bids her goodnight just as a chorus of voices raise up in curses. He nearly runs into a mountain- or rather a mountain trio- as three craggy old Klingons barrel past him and he recognizes them as the troublemakers who usually get into the thick of it with Jadzia. He can only imagine what Kurzon Dax must have been like to inspire such loyalty in an entirely different host, but his mind is awash with far darker thoughts tonight as he starts walking just a little faster.

Julian’s afraid that he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry, but it would be far worse to draw attention to himself. Or would it? It isn’t so late that the makeshift streets, the sparse blanks between the tents aren’t still teeming with a fair amount of people and he _does_ have a legitimate purpose after all. He looks out, as far as he can see; the tent city stretches on for miles, the Cardassian encampment at the far southern edge. He can see where the color whirl begins to morph to grays and greens. First are the soldier’s tents separating the main Cardassian encampment and circling the perimeter. Julian draws his shoulders back, his cloak tonight the black and red of the Royal house of Sisko as he strides purposefully past the large soldiers’ tents. 

He sees the torches being lit as the sun finalizes its descent and he hears mothers calling their children inside. There won’t be fireworks until tomorrow, until the conclusion of the first day’s round of the tournament. And then the second and third day it will only grow more raucous as the winners and losers return to victory or jeers. Picard had been the one to introduce the tournament as a means of peacefully settling the differences amongst the warring Kingdoms and a victory by Lorgh that first year to cede half of the western fertile crest had cemented the neutrality of the event and thankfully led to the cease of hostilities. And some story of his son’s parentage that Worf was loathe to discuss with anyone.

It also had the additional effect of glorifying violence, as far as Julian was concerned, the selection process for the representatives was especially brutal and full of arduous training for children as young as five years old. _But then again, they won’t have to grow up knowing the world that you did as a child. They’re born today into a time of peace, they have these games instead of war. Be glad for that. And the tournament isn’t the only reason to be here, after all. We all have the chance to meet people from lands we might otherwise know, to understand each other and.._. 

He stops that thought short, a strange image of Kelas Parmak suddenly appearing before him, that clasp of hands, that smile, that crinkle of his eyes as he held back a laugh at something stupid that Julian had said. But that’s still a better distraction than thinking about the true reason he’s seeing Parmak; the reason that he’s even doing this at all. Julian doesn’t want to think about the caterpillars in his stomach that wormed their way into his stomach that night he left his father’s house, only to bloom fully birthed anew butterflies this morning as he first glimpsed the encampment knowing that he’d have to come here and see _him._

Julian still doesn’t know how he’s going to make contact with Garak. As the sultan’s personal physician he has some leeway but as for any sort of plausible excuse... Julian sighs, watching the angle of his shadow shift slightly, seeing the tents turn from modest to opulent, careful to recall Parmak’s directions. Two removed from Tain himself. That could very well put him right near Garak- if he truly is that close to Garak’s tent. Julian has no delusions about the guard though, and the thought of sneaking in like a common criminal only makes him nervous again. He’s a doctor- what does he know of killings, of assassinations in the cover of darkness _? Because you_ _are_ _a doctor, Julian. And it will be quick. You know how to do it. Cardassians aren’t so different beneath the scales, beneath the ridges. You know that you’ll need to drive it extra hard, secure the angle just right because of that differential in the skull, but it will go in smoothly, quietly, and he won’t even be able to cry out. It... it won’t hurt. He deserves it... some even wish that the assassin who murdered Picard might be burned alive or stoned, but you won’t let it hurt, right, Julian? You know how to show mercy... even to_ _him_ _._

Julian swallows, his steps slowing in spite of his need for haste as he draws closer to what he presumes is Parmak’s tent. He passes a large infirmary, seeing the painted symbol, reminding him of the oath he took to heal. He took an oath to save lives. _And how many lives will be saved_ _with just this one, Julian? How many would’ve been saved from the fire if you knew then what you know now?_ The fire. The inferno that raged through the capital ten years ago that by all rights should have claimed his life as well- if he was human, if he was a man and not a monster. If he hadn’t woken from that drug induced slumber and made him way from his bed to the Sultan’s chambers, an unseen specter, watching dumbly, deafly, as Garak, as his lover drew the blade across Picard’s throat. 

He can still see the blood when he thinks about it too long. he can feel that warmth gushing over his hands as if it were him and it makes him cold, shake, dry heave. Julian thinks perhaps that trauma was the only thing that stopped the migraines. Watching the palace burn, the fire spreading so fast that it engulfed a quarter of the city before it was contained, was almost too much to bear after Garak had fled. But not Garak’s shop. No, the shop was untouched, ransacked, three men caught perfectly in the act of the murder by the guards as they evacuated the quarter. _And they just let the body burn, never questioning never stopping to_ _think_.

Julian stops. He hadn’t realized that his hands were balled tight to fists until he begins to feel the tingle, the nails digging in. He still dreams of that night, of those nightmare images. He dreams of being torched in that conflagration, but worst of all he dreams of Garak still. Julian forces himself to breathe deeply as he stops in front of Parmak’s tent- at least he guesses that’s where he is. He’s surprised not to see guards but he knows well from the tales that he’s heard of the Obsidian Order that it doesn’t mean there aren’t any. But tonight he doesn’t need to worry. He knows that he has to wait until the final night. 

Tomorrow will start the tournament, and he knows that any interruption before a disruption before a victor is chosen could itself spell doom for the alliance between The Federation and Bajor. It will have to be the third night- after the victory, after the speeches, the night that they rejoice and all accords are signed. The main guard will be with those signing, and he’s confirmed a thousand subtle ways in speaking with the prince, that only the elders will be in attendance. _Which means Garak will be far less guarded- which means you’ve three days to get as close to him as you possibly can and then-_

“Doctor Bashir!” Julian nearly jumps as the tent flap parts and Kelas Parmak is mere inches from his face all at once. “I was afraid that I might have scared you off.” He smiles, though it’s with the self-conscious awareness of one who’s done just that same thing on more than one occasion. But as Julian smiles and begs to please be called just Julian, he takes one look at what Parmak is wearing and wonders how anyone could _possibly_ be scared off by anything this man might do. It’s obscene. That’s Julian’s first thought, but he reminds himself it’s nearly identical to the clothes that Ambassador Kira had worn when she’d first come to the capital. It’s unusual. 

Julian has long accustomed himself to seeing Cardassian males, Garak included, in more modest dress. And seeing Parmak now blinking at him owlishly wearing that loose black shirt that more resembles an undergarment than proper clothing with its thick straps in lieu of sleeves, he’s not certain where he should even be directing his attention. That hollow of his collarbone, that _chula_ Garak had called it, those ridges bared so blatantly seems almost scandalous. Julian looks further down quickly, but he still cannot help but see that shirt tucked into a belt, tucked into pants that he supposes by the standards of the north wouldn’t be terribly indecent. But Julian isn’t a Northerner and the hint of Parmak’s slender hips is just so- 

“Julian?” He hears Parmak’s voice and exhales sharply with a nervous laugh fixated on bare gray feet, on long toes that he irrationally wants to take in his mouth. 

“I... I’m sorry is this a bad time?”

“A bad time?” He hears the confusion and realizes that no, Parmak clearly does _not_ consider himself indisposed but seems quite at ease with his current state of dress. Julian shuts his eyes tightly, briefly, and reminds himself that this is okay. That this is _fine_. That’s he’s over thirty years old and hasn’t remained celibate for some ignorant belief in eternal damnation but for something far more personal. And that something is two damn seductions away. 

“I’m sorry, can we do that again?” Julian steels himself, looking up giving his best smile as he sees Parmak’s face framed in the setting sun, definitely seeming far closer to Garak in age- if not older- but no less easy to look at. Julian sees that ponytail loose, haphazard and he nearly groans. But Julian keeps that to himself, following as Parmak turns around wordlessly and ushers him inside. He still wonders what he’s even doing here but he knows that the intelligence that the Maquis have right now is far better than his own. This is the way to Garak, and this is the way that he’s going to go.

Julian doesn’t even sense Elim Garak watching the two of them from a distance, with eyes, that few would recognize are ablaze with fury.

 

* * *

 

“Are you Garak?” Julian asked as he took a final step into the shop. “Garak’s Clothier’s”, as the hand painted wooden sign outside had advertised it to be, was a modest sized shop, spaced carefully to the aesthetic of displaying certain pieces that he could tell were the man’s signature works. There were a few women’s kaftans along the far wall, gowns, beautiful wide pants and scarves along with a few northern inspired pieces framed with beading on the walls to accent the designs. He could see belted dresses with lower necklines, some sewn with a modest layered lining, a display of caps neatly separating the women’s clothing from the men’s robes and long shirts. A bright red fabric caught his eyes, the cloth spilling down like a crimson waterfall, certain to make a statement at court. 

He was sure that the elder members of the council would frown upon such ostentation but as far as he was concerned it would be a welcome departure from the worn homespun blue tunic he wore now. He could certainly afford it. His new position at the palace left him with far more money than he really even knew what to properly do with and while he could imagine his mother telling him the trouble that an abundance of wealth would cause, a change of clothes seemed to be the lesser of such evils. Which was how he found himself here when word spread of a Cardassian man making a nuisance of himself around the palace entreating any member of the court who passed by to stop in for a measurement and a complimentary consultation.

His Majesty’s Chief engineer, a ruddy faced northern man named Miles O’Brien had told him he ought to stop in and get a good look at the Cardie spy. That suggestion intrigued him and Julian had asked the Chief, as Julian had taken to calling him with the rest of the court, wanted to tag along. The frosty response spoke volumes; Julian had the impression that the man didn’t care much for him though he couldn’t quite understand why. He’d been careful not to be too friendly, too familiar in a way that could be misconstrued with any immoral intent. Julian was careful to avoid any eye contact or unwarranted touching, and he made sure not to smile wantonly. He’d long understood that the expressions he gave, the way that he spoke, were inappropriate and he’d worked hard to correct that defect. 

He wondered perhaps if he still hadn’t somehow given offense when trying to speak with the man, if somehow he still was too familiar, too _strange._ But he’d often see the Chief laughing and smiling with the nurses at court, with Worf, the head of the palace Guard, with the Bajoran Ambarassador Kira even. But then, she was cool to him too and Julian supposed in the end that there was still that off putting _something_ that people could sense about him, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it.

Perhaps that was why Julian was excited at the prospect of meeting the Cardassian. He’d never met a Cardassian before. He’d overheard O’Brien’s stories from the Borderwar to the crown Prince Wesley but he was certain they had to be exaggerated with the intent to entertain the young prince. Julian didn’t properly remember the war. His parents said it was because he was so young, but Julian had learned long ago not to question the long swaths of missing memories from his childhood. He’d also learned that his parents couldn’t be trusted to tell him the truth. 

When he laid out the timeline of events, when he consulted that careful catalogue, he could see the conflicted visits to relatives, the dates that didn’t match, the duplicate birthdays. But thinking about it too long always started to make his head hurt. The flashes of memory that he _did_ have… of a pale man named Sloan, of pain, of isolation in the dark…  they made the pain almost unbearable. And that had only grown worse in the last few months. He’d skipped breakfast that morning in fact because the pain of that migraine was too great to eat.

He’d spoken with Doctor Crusher about it but she didn’t have any answers even after a thorough examination. He didn’t appear in danger of the blood hemorrhage, of the palsy. He was in perfect physical condition as far as she could see and while that should have reassured him, it only worried him further. He was having difficulty concentrating, thinking clearly, and that was troubling. He asked if she thought it might be the carcinoma of the head and her hesitance worried him. They both knew that prognosis and what would happen if anyone should suspect he was ill. Julian had shaken that thought off but still it lingered, it festered in the back of his head just like the carcinoma. But it was also that fear of death, of that unknown that spurred him to take this chance today. Jadzia Dax, the trill soldier, scientist, completely insane woman who was his only friend at court, had told him that he needed to seize this. That there was no point in dying with regrets, and as he finally let his attention fully turn back to the Cardassian man, that question still hanging in the air, he swallowed down doubt along with any contrivance of sin.

He could see the look of concentration as the man looked down to whatever page was on the counter in front of him. The man was beautiful. That was Julian’s first thought when he finally allowed himself a good look. There was some self recrimination, some sense of horror, some guilt that he was certain should be spilling over any moment, but he was far too busy staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen in his life when that head finally lifted and looked back at him. Those eyes blinked at him a few times almost expectantly. Julian knew that he was staring. He was sure that perhaps his jaw was even stupidly slack as he felt his pulse increase in some blend of nerves and excitement. He’d never seen gray skin before, not in person anyway. Of course there were the textbooks that illustrated the clear biological differences. He’d studied all races to make sure that he could treat anyone who’d come to visit the palace, even working on a thesis on the effect of recessive ancestral traits in the efficacy of certain painkillers.

But seeing a figure on a page where the author noted the majority of Cardassians possessed blue eyes was far different than that deep blue that drowned him with that look. _A recessive traits in humans that’s somehow dominant in Cardassians. That hardly seems possible. And are they all so piercing, so endless?_ He realized as he was staring so ridiculously that the man he presumed to be Garak was saying something as Julian was mapping the ridges of his face, the way the ridges raised around his eyes, the faint scales around his nose, and that dramatic line to the dip in the center of his forehead. His eyes trailed back down from the slicked back black hair to the man’s mouth. And there was that sin, roaring, raging to the forefront of his mind from that pit where he’d buried such wicked things deep to die. 

He could feel his throat close, feel that tightness, that pulse of blood to his face as he said a silent prayer in the face of that man looking at him and he could feel a hand raise to see if he could feel his heart pounding subconsciously through his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” He croaked out at last mentally slapping himself to duck his head down, mortified at his behavior. “I don’t know… I… I mean I know I was staring it’s just that your… your face is so… ah…” Julian was terrified of the prospect of someone coming behind him as he leaned back against the door nearly falling back against it.

The Cardassian who had yet to confirm whether or not he _was_ in fact the proprietor Garak, looked faintly amused as Julian continued to flounder.

“You know, it _is_ quite the coincidence but I believe you may very well be no less than the tenth person today to remark on my visage, tell me, is there a something that I’m presenting incorrectly?” He stepped out from around the counter- that voice faintly accented speaking in perfect Federation Standard- and Julian realized that he absolutely had to stop staring at him, instead focusing on those feet, black boots peering out from long tan trousers. They were baggy, but Julian could see as his eyes trailed back up that there was a cloth belt at his waist, a loose white shirt billowing, thin, and he could see it open to show the dip at the hollow of his throat, show those dark ridges of his neck and again Julian swallowed. 

“Ah no, not at all in fact I really should be apologizing for being so rude for staring I just… you know from a em… professional standpoint just that there are certain physiological differences that are absolutely amazing...” He looked at some arrangement of scarves clearing his throat again, wishing desperately that his palms would stop sweating. He wiped them on his shirt, finally forcing himself to take a step away from the door. “You _are_ Garak, right”

“For now,” he answered in an enigmatic way that nearly made Julian shiver. “And I assure you, Doctor Bashir, I take no offense. If a few awkward stares is all that I must contend with today then I shall consider myself quite a fortunate man indeed.” Julian realized just how close the two of them were standing as Garak tilted his head curiously, holding out a hand. He looked at it almost dumbly. “This is the standard greeting for humans, is it not? I haven’t had much opportunity to practice, I’m afraid. Business has been rather slow and for some unfathomable reason-”

“No it’s fine,” Julian blurted out, thinking that if he had to hold Garak’s hand for any length of time he might very well melt into the floor. He wiped his hand again on his tunic hoping it wasn’t going to stain the cloth, wasn’t too unpleasant as he clasped Garak’s hand firmly, arm locking awkwardly as it seemed that Garak didn’t quite understand the routine. Julian’s hand shook and he noted the callouses of Garak’s fingers, his warm, broad palm. Julian’s thumb absently rubbed the soft skin, a little smoother than his own on the back, but almost soft and scaly like a lizard’s. He stared at those two hands clasped and forgot how to breathe.

“You can…” _Wait… how did he know my name?_ Julian’s head shot up suddenly looking Garak full in the face once more. “How did you know my name?” He asked that in lieu of letting Garak know that he could let go. Julian licked his lips, his mouth dry, and he really thought he must have been going mad to feel his heart beat so wildly so suddenly. That question was a soft quivering whisper as he held onto that hand like a lifeline. Garak maintained that smile evenly, his eyes dancing with mischief and the portrait of the dark spy immediately came to the forefront of Julian’s mind. “How… How did you know my name?” He repeated his right leg shaking, aching to take just one step forward and-

“Your reputation precedes you, doctor,” Garak answered with a look that passed so briefly across his face that Julian would’ve sworn that he’d only imagined it. _No, you don’t know. You can’t_ _possibly_ _know. No one here does, I’ve been far too careful._ Julian pulled his hand back quickly, seeing a brief look of surprise pass over Garak’s face.

“What reputation? What are you taking about?” _Not the Academy, surely not, I know they never caught us I know they never suspected a think that we were-_

“Merely that the Sultan’s personal physician is a charming young man who never lacks for female company. I couldn’t help but notice the crowd outside before you’d come in.”

Julian hadn’t been paying attention at the time; a little boy had scraped his knee in the street and Julian had given him nothing but a cursory examination and a brief calming talk before his mother had arrived. He’d spoken with her politely, seeing a few other women curious about his work at the palace but then again, that was hardly uncommon. _Ah. Right. Reputation._ His face felt hot, flush with embarrassment and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. Of course that’s what Garak was referring to. It wasn’t as if he could somehow see into Julian’s head, see those dark lustful thoughts that attacked his resolve.

“Yes well, you know, people always want to hear all the dramatic stories of surgeries, saving lives, it’s all very exciting. Do you know that I actually scored the highest marks of anyone at the Academy?” Garak shook his head politely, as Julian stepped in more comfortably forcing himself to relax. “Yes, well I mean not to brag, of course it was a lot of hard work. I was neck and neck with a Vulcan classmate until that last exam when I… I’m really going on. You don’t care about any of this, do you?” He laughed a little self consciously. Garak smiled at him, politely, he imagined.

“I care about anything that _you_ care to tell me, Doctor, although my interests tend to fall more to the literary, to the philosophical if you will. And occasionally to my trade as you can see from this humble little corner of the capital.”

“Yes,” Julian brightened, looking at the red fabric again. “I _was_ hoping to get something a little more ah… contemporary.” He indicated his clothes. Garak took that time to give a dramatic sweep of his eyes that Julian found terribly intimate. His own eyes quickly made a study of Garak’s hands, deeming that to be the safest course of action.

“Yes, I can see that I have my work cut out for me but fear not, I’ve dealt with far more hopeless causes in my line of work.” Julian didn’t know why he felt a pinprick to the back of his neck at that statement. It was something in the tone, in the delivery that made him murmur a teasing retort with a small smile quirking the side of his mouth. Perhaps it was that culmination of nerves, bunching, binding so taut that there was no other recourse but to explode in a fit of irreverence.

“And what line of work might that be?” Asked in a tone that clearly said he didn’t believe for one moment that the Cardassian was just a simple tailor. Julian looked up almost hesitantly, hoping as he did that he hadn’t offended Garak but instead found an amusement, some dark engagement there passing over his face that was achingly attractive. Garak’s smile moved from mere pleasantry to something else entirely as he reached out, passing the fabric of Julian’s robe through his fingers, feeling the material. It suddenly felt terribly hot as he did so.

“I’m not sure what you could possibly be alluding to. Mmm… yes, we’ll definitely need to do something about this. I _am_ going to need to take your measurements if you have the time.”

“My… measurements?” _Yes, of course, Julian, he_ _is_ _a tailor after all._ “I ah…”

“Of course if you’re pressed for time you can always come back when you’re not so… occupied.” It seemed as if Garak was teasing him back now, and aside from the fact that he wasn’t certain he’d have the nerve to return at this point.

“No, no, I have the time now, I’m not expected back until after dinner when I have a few appointments.”

He walked past Garak, feeling his heart start to race when he watched the heavy drapes being drawn closed, the door locked. It was then he realized just how much light streamed in from the small opening of the roof, small pieces of glass set in to keep out any debris.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have the space I’d like but I imagine in time I’ll have a much better set up.” He motioned Julian towards the back corner near two neat stalls with the curtains drawn. “I’ve had to make a few adjustments since the women’s area in the back is far more private. In fact, I find I may need an assistant if you know any women with even a modicum of sewing skill. As you can see business has been somewhat slow and I suspect that may be due to some of your customs here.” Julian decided it was best not to point out that it was also likely to his being a Cardassian. He stopped in front of a full length mirror on the wall, glimpsing absently at the metal worked around it like the ivy that grew in the north, accented with a few petals of shimmering green paint.

“So do you just start anywhere?” He asked watching Garak come back with a tape measure and look at him expectantly. He didn’t know why his head was so foggy, the pieces tumbling together like the clay skeleton models at the academy, shattering to the ground after being bumped.

Garak raised an eye ridge at him as he realized yes, that was exactly why the shop was shuttered for the measurement.

“I… ah… it’s not… it’s not necessary is it? I mean surely you can make adjustments or… guess?” He cleared his throat as it rose an octave higher.

“If there’s some impairment or anything you feel embarrassed about I assure you I _am_ a professional, doctor.”

“No, no it’s not that at all it’s just…” he tried to find any way to explain that he was quite certain with Garak’s hands on him, professional or not that he could hardly be assured of his reaction to the proximity, that touch, those eyes, that every damn thing he’d been so desperately praying away.

“Of course I’m aware of the taboo between members of the opposite sex but I hadn’t realized that also extended to other races. If I’ve committed some cultural offense that wasn’t my intention.” Garak looked about to put the long length of rope away.

“No!” Julian cleared his throat again still at a loss for any reasonable explanation to what was slowly becoming a completely unreasonable situation. “No,” he said more softly. “There’s no issue, not… not between two men it’s…”

Julian didn’t let himself continue as he pulled the tunic over his head. He was careful to fold it and place it on a chair before his shaking hands went to the string of his loose white pants.

“Is this enough?” He hesitated, daring to look at Garak’s face, wishing so terribly that he hadn’t when their eyes met and he could swear that there was some heat from that returned look. But it passed just as quickly as he’d imagined it.

“If they were more fitted, perhaps, but it _is_ called taking a measurement for a reason, Doctor,” Garak clicked his tongue making him feel terribly chastised. “Though I can see by the cut of that cloth that proper measurements haven’t been a priority, ah, but that _is_ the sacrifice one must make for saving the world one patient at a time.” It almost seemed that Garak were mocking him and he found that tinge of irritation just enough to calm his hands steady.

“Well, it certainly can’t compete with the glamorous world of sewing,” Julian answered tartly. He remembered then to remove his sandals and then took off his pants, folding them as well.

“Few things can, doctor, few things can.” He circled around Julian almost critically, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. Julian had never learned to be comfortable with a stranger at his back. He had a flash of images, just briefly. A flicker of a man in a long black cloak at his back with a dagger and he had the sense that the man was testing him. He blinked and it was gone, and Julian watched Garak in the mirror until he came full circle. “But I would imagine that it’s parallel in some ways, you know,” Garak said suddenly as he motioned for Julian to lift his arms.

“What?”

“Oh I was just thinking that in ways our respective occupations aren’t so dissimilar. Take this for example. One might say that in both professions it’s essential to size up a man, to observe, to measure his body until you’re absolutely certain that you’ve made an accurate assessment of his issue.” Julian tensed, feeling a tickle beneath his other arm as Garak measured and wrote down the numbers.

“And what might my issue be then?” he challenged, feeling suddenly bold as Garak’s arms were around his chest.

“I’m afraid, my dear doctor,” Garak replied dramatically, “that you’ve no sense of fashion whatsoever.” Julian snorted.

“Well I can certainly think of more egregious character flaws than that.”

“And _that_ ,” Garak moved on to his waist. “Is why you’d never make it as a tailor.”

“Well _you_ , would make a rather poor doctor, handing out a diagnosis without asking your patient a single question…” Garak smiled at him and Julian continued. “And anyway that’s why I’m here, _doctor_ Garak. So that you can mold me into something suitable.” He caught Garak jotting down his waist at 87 centimeters and he decided that he might need to stop taking so many lunches in the palace and get more fresh air. He wondered absently about Garak’s measurements, hardly having a tailor’s eye, seeing those broad shoulders drop down as Garak knelt in front of him to measure his inseam. 

That good humor stuck somewhere in his stomach as he felt the slow tickling crawl up his leg. Julian hoped that Garak would move quickly, babbling to keep himself suitably distracted from that touch. 

“But anyway, I was looking at that red fabric that I saw on the wall and it might be a bit gaudy but I thought that I could use a change. Maybe even a different style I mean I appreciate my mother’s sewing but I’ve already had to mend these a few times on my own and I…I…”

It was warm, and he felt that touch linger as Garak’s hands moved higher, knuckles brushing the inside of his thigh tickling, torturing until he could feel that warmth spreading back to front, causing that ember to smolder until he thought his entire body might catch fire. At least until he felt that left knee buckle as tightly as he’d been wound up. Julian caught himself on Garak’s shoulder before he fell and he saw that tape measure hit the ground when his thumb closed over the ridges trailing down the side of Garak’s neck. He heard a long drawn in hiss, afraid that he might have caused pain.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry I don’t know what I-” Julian dropped to both knees, already examining that spot, his hands lightly moving. “Does it hurt? I don’t recall reading anywhere that there was a pressure point or-“

“Doctor…” Garak’s voiced sounded strained, and looked at Garak concerned, only to find that concern ebb, a skip of his heart, an immediate widening of his eyes as he saw Garak breathing a noticeable amount harder in what certainly appeared _not_ to be pain. Julian immediately jerked his hand back, falling as his entire body decided to follow suit. He just caught himself on his palm, right wrist jarring as he did. Julian winced feeling like a complete fool as he sat there legs splayed. He could see Garak’s eyes on him, not amused, but clinical, assessing, rather-

“No, the red certainly will clash awfully with your skin tone.” He made that chiding click again. “Yes I can see those unfortunate mends as well... But... No... No... come back in two weeks doctor, and I believe I’ll have just what you need.”

 


	3. Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian gets to know Kelas Parmak a bit better and Garak is far from happy. In the past he gets to learn a lot more about Cardassian taboos at lunch with Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a bit dirtier, a bit more intrigue and boy am I having fun. I really liked toying with some alien biology and cultural concepts. I want to give a massive shout out to all my fellow writers and lovers of the G/B (and P?) fandom for your inspiration and encouragement. A few possibly goofy headcanons about Parmak that hopefully don't clash too badly with anyone else's but hey, that's half the fun! Thank everyone for reading and C&C is always welcome!

Kelas Parmak hates him. Julian is certain that has to be the case. There is no other reason that he can possibly think of for the heated look of fury to be so poignantly directed at him from across the small space separating the two of them. There’s intensity to those blue eyes, as he holds that look, a frown deepening his face that makes Julian uneasy. It also makes him feel chastised like a child when after that searching expression, Parmak returns to the scroll the both of them are examining, as if Julian’s confused look back wasn’t what he was looking for. It’s starting to become tiresome. 

Julian listens as Parmak explains, as his finger follows along with the line that he quotes, how Julian’s conclusion on the efficacy of the rose cactus salve in treating the wasting consumption is flawed and poorly researched. Admittedly, somewhere between his mention of Julian’s studies and some nitpick about his syntax for translation purposes, Julian tunes him out, instead making a study of the dark flush of the ridges of his neck and the fall of that loose careless shirt as he leans in and pushes his spectacles back up.

“I’m sorry if I’m not explaining myself clearly. You look like you’re confused. If there’s a point of clarification that you need of course I’d be happy to give you more detail. I had hoped you would understand without my needing to simplify the language but…”

Parmak leaves that last cutting little remark hanging. Of course it isn’t spoken snidely. It’s an earnest thoughtful trail off as if there’s some genuine consideration to be had there. But then again, they’ve all been like that and Julian is still questioning whether or not he’s imagining it. He mentally replays the last twenty minutes as his jaw tightens and he resists the urge to roll that scroll back up and smack him with it. Parmak had politely invited him inside, given him one of those warm, just a little too warming smiles apologizing for the mess. 

Mess, of course, didn’t begin to do the interior of the vast tent justice. Julian’s eye first caught the voluminous crates all along the back wall full of scrolls, books, jars, and whatever else he could imagine. That was followed by scrolls spilling out of ornate clay pots, various anatomical representations of a variety of materials, and lastly the stacks of books dwarfing the tent posts themselves, and quite possibly holding up the fabric should the poles collapse. He imagined there must have at one point been a cot, and he thought he could make it out beneath another pile of books and scrolls. There really seemed to be nothing more than a carefully maintained path on the rug and a fiercely guarded circular free space that was in danger of being encroached upon at any time by the living clutter.

Parmak had directed him to sit remarking that he wasn’t certain of the flexibility of humans to which Julian had cheerfully assured him that it wouldn’t be an issue. From there Julian had imagined the two of them might engage in some interesting dialogue, a little banter a little…. Well in any case, he hadn’t envisioned the odd comments or those frequent _stares_. Parmak had continued to make odd little insinuations about the books he’d read, 

 _“Are you familiar with Vorak? He’s a bit abstract so likely not, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I made that assumption,”_ his leisure activities, _“It might be fun to play Kotra sometimes. I’m admittedly awful against skilled players but we might have a spirited game,”_ down to his ignorance of art as he’d showed him one of his latest acquisitions, _“I don’t see why you wouldn’t appreciate the subtleties of the open space here, usually children prefer the brighter colors of say Ghanar but I didn’t think… Mmm I might not have anything here that you’d find interesting.”_ Julian had begun to feel as he was back with Miles O’Brien barely hiding a complete loathing of his company.

It was nothing like the afternoon full of those cheerful smiles and touches to his shoulders. Not that Parmak was rude; nothing he’d done could theoretically be considered _rude_ or anything particularly exceptional, really. And given that, Julian had been polite at first, keeping the grin pasted stupidly onto his face until they came to the heart of his visit. That was when he found that the longer he held that civility, the more pointed Parmak was becoming with his criticisms, subtle though they still remained. And as Julian can feel his teeth grinding wondering just what he could have possibly done that was so egregious as to- _Did he just ask about the courses the academy teaches on communications between foreign races? Are they required?! Alright, that does it, so help me-_

“Enough!” Julian doesn’t yell but he’s damn close as he interrupts Parmak only now realizing just how much his respirations have increased, just how quickly his heart is beating with that rush of adrenaline. “Look, I’ve tried to be polite, I’ve gone out of my way in fact not to get into a pointless shouting match with you but this _cannot_ continue.”

“I completely agree, Julian!” Parmak’s enthusiastic affirmation completely puzzles him as do those two hands suddenly on his shoulders. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that, as you can see, I’m not particularly skilled in the formalities of… ah… right... So… we understand each other then? I was afraid that I’d misread your intentions this afternoon. When you hadn’t responded to any of my overtures I thought you might not have understood my invitation. You… _did_ understand right?” 

Julian almost thinks that another one of those weird remarks, except for the fact that Parmak catches his eyes looking like he might faint if Julian answers him incorrectly. Really, Julian is about to tell him that he _thought_ he understood quite clearly until these last twenty minutes that he’s been completely convinced that Parmak would like nothing better than for him to leave along with the proverbial horse that he rode in on. And he’s about to say as much as well when he has an odd memory that he’s frankly appalled to have forgotten given the relevance to his current situation.

A few years ago there was a group of Cardassian scientists visiting the capital as part of an exchange from the previous Central Command of the Cardassian Union. Miles O’Brien had been tasked with playing host to the three women that had arrived in the capital in spite of his strenuous objections. His Majesty had thought it to be a good way to show friendship between the two countries and there was no one better qualified. Of course, as Julian recalls, the one scientist Gilora Rejal had spent the entire trip arguing with nearly every point he’d presented; Julian had to hear those complaints often enough when he’d asked how things were going.

As it turned out, much to Julian’s amusement and O’Brien’s complete mortification, the entire debacle had been one grand misunderstanding that came to a head when she’d asked him back to his room and became indignant at his spluttering rejection. Julian almost laughs, but it occurs to him also going by that same experience that’s only the second worse possible response- especially since, unlike Miles O’Brien, Julian wants painfully, _achingly_ badly to follow through with that attractive proposition.

That longing had started earlier in the day from a small anxious flip of his stomach to the arresting heat that he’d felt when he’d glimpsed Parmak standing in the open flap of the tent. And that’s only grown to this moment now, reading that desire with perfect clarity for what it is. Julian licks his lips and finds himself almost shaking as he nods, just imaging his mouth on that neck, tongue dipping into that sensitive little divot to see if he can make him hiss just like- _Just like no one, Julian. Just like you don’t need to think about him right now._

“Oh yes… Yes I understand very much but ah… what I don’t understand is that I thought that earlier… I thought that you had adopted a more human approach to your overtures.”

“In public, of course,” Parmak agrees. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate to be seen courting you so openly.” Julian refrained from pointing out that to every non Cardassian it was likely obvious, but again he remembers that Parmak had given nearly equal attention to everyone present, differing only in his eager acceptance of Julian’s invitation. “But you know I think I prefer your human way of interacting. I’ve always appreciated the feel of the body in motion. It’s fascinating to feel muscles move, to see life moving.” He illustrates that point quite nicely when he starts slowly running his hands over Julian’s shoulders.

Even through the weave of the cotton shirt draped over him- he’d carefully folded his cloak and decided to go bareheaded- Julian can feel the warm touch of Parmak’s hands like the lick of flames. He watches as Parmak’s eyes drop, watching his own motions, studying the faint tremor of Julian’s body in response as he slides hands down to triceps, letting his fingers register every tensing of muscles with a small satisfied smile. Julian watches that mouth, the faint gray moist, thoughtful, looking terribly soft. He leans in just a little with a slight, slow turn of his head.

“I’ve never been very good with words. I suppose that makes me a pretty poor Cardassian, doesn’t it?” Another rueful smile and Julian allows himself to reach up and touch Parmak’s hair.

“I don’t think you’re a poor anything.”

“Perhaps I was merely fishing for compliments,” Parmak teases a little breathlessly. Julian expects the slick oil sheen but instead finds that hair untouched by more than that knotted cloth. He doesn’t know why that makes his groin stir fiercely. He’s not quite sure what he’s even doing right now but-

“Is it okay if I-“ They speak the words at the same time, Parmak’s hands having trailed to Julian’s left hand, Julian’s fingers resting on the tie.

Parmak laughs softly and their faces seem so close together that Julian doesn’t dare move as their breaths marry in the rapidly heating air. Julian hasn’t had time to stop and process that self-recrimination, that oath to his father as fast as the moment is moving. Julian isn’t sure that he’s ever felt such a fast fierce kismet with anyone not even… Not even the man he _isn’t going to think of._ That thought passes fleeting like it was never there when Parmak whispers in that shadowed space, _“I want to know every bit of your body, Julian.”_ His hands, sand dust softly swirl two thumbs dancing over the back of Julian’s hand, fingers teasing the underside of his palm. That motion tickles. 

It also makes his nerves vibrate all the way up his arm until he feels that link right to his chest, to his pulse picking up hot, needy as those fingers massage his hand. Julian’s grip feels weak as he tries to clasp that tie, the both of them proceeding hesitantly with that unspoken permission to keep going. Somehow their knees are nearly touching and Julian barely notices the tingle of his legs from that kneeling position as he learns forward to awkwardly unbind the cloth tying Parmak’s hair. Julian doesn’t resist when his other hand is raised and brought to Parmak’s face, brought to his mouth, those lips brushing just the tips of his fingers.

Julian can feel the knot between his fingers as he traces the path and finds the end of that tie to tug to release it. But he pauses, body locking down tight when it’s Parmak’s tongue that teases around the pads of his fingers. They’re slightly rough, calloused things that he never would have imagined to still be so sensitive, but they are. Parmak holds his wrist, lightly stroking his pulse as he licks slowly, softly, Julian’s fingers, starting with the index moving in slowly to the small pinky. Each intersection of sensitive webbing is lightly stroked between those torrid transitions until Julian can feel his legs quivering beneath him, thighs squeezing painfully together. That tie snaps with a sudden unconscious tug revealing that strength he keeps carefully at bay. 

An apology for that indiscretion dies in his throat as his vocal chords wobble, a strangled sound caught in his throat as he feels one of Parmak’s hands- which he can’t even be certain- drop like the flutter of a leaf to his groin, palming that hardness tenting even that loose fabric nearly taut. He swallows words. He’s aware that his hand is weirdly wet but somehow his mind transposes the strong slurping draw in of his hand to his cock as Parmak allows the tip of Julian’s index finger to lightly graze the back of his throat, each of those brief choking brushes playing with the counterpoint of his palm pressing, _pressing_ until Julian thinks he’s going to shame himself right there.

Julian’s arm drapes unceremoniously over Parmak’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine covered with that thick fall of impossibly long hair covering them both. Julian thinks he could get lost in it. His fingers tangle, tugging just a bit and he hears a hiss, feels that vibration of Parmak’s throat, feels his hand tighten painfully in response. Julian’s thighs unconsciously spread a few inches apart, his hips tilt upwards, and Parmak pulls back letting go of his hand. He continued to rotate his palm and Julian can feel the slit of his glans part just that infinitesimal amount, seeping wet sticky against the cotton of his pants. 

He has to blink a few times to clear his vision when Parmak looks at him, looking to catch his eyes and he does brilliantly, brightly, not a bit of misunderstanding between them now.

“Will you look at me, Julian?” Parmak whispers. “Will you let me…”

“Anything,” Julian rushes back, terribly desperate to have that mouth on his. But it isn’t Parmak’s mouth that he feels. But a press of his forehead, that _chufa_ warm, almost pulsing alive to his skin. It confuses him at first, knowing from his studies and from Garak’s confirmation that spot is little more than the Cardassian equivalent of the navel. None of the scrolls that he’s come across has ever-

“Tsss….” He hears that hiss from Parmak, and feels a faint twist of his head, tickling, that spot growing warmer until he hears the faint hitching breaths. Parmak’s lips whisper some soft sibilant nothing while his fingers intertwine with Julian’s in a tight grip. Parmak holds his hand with one, the motions over his groin having stopped with the other and whatever he must be feeling, Julian certainly wishes that he understood. It’s not an unpleasant sensation by any means, but it’s nothing that Garak’s ever done with him and somehow that thought bothers him when he considers the likely significance. 

It’s just one in a series of things that he knows Garak held back and that skip in his heart, that drop in the pit of his stomach makes him defiantly shut his eyes tightly and focus there, trying to understand, trying to _feel_ whatever it is that’s making Parmak gasp and heave like he’s- _Oh… Oh…_ Julian feels it as the heat blossoms out, reaching the bridge of his nose. It almost feels like a shock as it makes his entire face feel flush and there’s a small whimper that escapes him with Parmak’s moans. “Yess… yesss…” His head turns with the heady tilt of Parmak’s head and that anger, that resentment that he felt for Garak is pushed to the back of his mind as Parmak nearly falls into him.

Julian has a flash of Leeta explaining the _pagh_ that Ambassador Kira was always talking about and he wonders if perhaps Bajorans and Cardassians aren’t more similar than they care to admit. Maybe he is as well. Julian doesn’t know. But there some intense emotion that wells up in his chest that he doesn’t know how to compress and contain. He isn’t sure whether or not he wants to laughs, moan, or scream. And then he feels the full weight of that surprisingly heavy body falling against him, pushing him backwards, his legs only barely extracting themselves from a painful pull of muscles. A stack of books collapses behind him but he doesn’t even notice. No, there’s something far more shocking that he feels hard, pressed against him, rubbing, rocking, and he cannot believe that he’s actually feeling it. Parmak’s eyes are dark and hazy, those glasses already fogged, as he looks down at Julian uncertainly.

“I’m sorry. I know that it’s completely inappropriate. I know it’s vulgar but I can’t help myself.” Julian feels Parmaks legs slide down around his hips, Parmak’s knees hitting the ground on either side of him.

Julian groans as that contact intensifies, as he feels that mutual rub between clothing friction heating fast. He looks up to that bare skin, those arms, that panting open mouth, that bottom lip that he wants to take between his teeth and suck. Yes it’s vulgar. Yes likely it violates some Cardassian standard of appropriate behavior that even Garak, with his penchant for coupling in a more human way, would never dream of violating. Yes, Julian loves it. _“I can’t help myself…”_ plays back to him and the thought that somehow this calm, soft spoken man has fallen to writhing on top of him everted, gasping, _chufa_ slightly swollen in a manner that he’s never before witnessed makes his cock stiffen further. Julian thrusts up against him. Parmak pushes back, thighs squeezing around Julian’s hips, not a fast rocking but a slow undulation like the careful coiling of a snake. Julian feels bare feet hook under his knees, trapping him like a boa constrictor as Parmak squeezes tighter another gasp, another heady hot “Tsss…” like the most arousing teakettle he’s ever heard.

Julian’s fingers curl into the soft sand beneath the rug and he almost thinks his nails might poke through the fine weaving- as hard as his jaw is set, as heavy as his breaths come- while Parmak slowly grinds against him. So help him, if Julian could snap his fingers right now and magic them both out of the clothing between them he would. He can feel Parmak’s hair tickling his face as he bends over, leans down, looking at Julian’s mouth eager, excited and Julian lifts his head just to see Parmak retreat. He seems almost frustrated as he tilts his head one way and then the other.

“How do I…” His eyes flit from Julian’s eyes to his mouth as he darts his tongue out, flicker tasting the air between them with a shiver. He closes that distance again, not letting up the motion his hips, making Julian growl low in his throat and nearly tear rents in that rug. “How do I…” is breathed against his lips, that tongue tasting and Julian understands, just as he understands that his hands need to be back, crushing Parmak against him.

“Here...” _Like this_ is nothing but a mash of his mouth moving in some semblance of words as Julian pulls him closer, knowing that Cardassian instinct is to a light tease of the tongue. 

Julian plays with that, but he moves from a teasing twining as their lips press together, pushing, probing, until he feels that assault met with equal eager force. He can feel Parmak’s toes curling into the backs of his thighs. That sway of his hips grows more erratic as Julian holds the back of his head, tasting his palette, letting their breathless gasps enhance that fluid exchange messily, inelegantly. He sees that Parmak is a quick study, licking at his mouth broadly, hotly, sometimes missing but laving his chin, the side of his mouth, his hands half tangled in Julian’s hair. Their breaths bleed into one another to share one panting exchange of oxygen, carbon dioxide, methanol, isoprene, and a bunch of other things he does _not_ care about right now when Parmak tugs what might be considered a touch too hard and nearly brings him off with a wild buck of his hips. 

Parmak pulls back concerned, and Julian sees those lips kiss swollen, the skin around his mouth brushed with the faint darkening, the lines of Julian’s short beard rubbing. 

“Sorry, that hurt?” His accent is slightly heavier, the words clipped and Julian can feel the push of  his body still, gyrating absently, each writhing motion making his eyes shutter just a small amount. _No, God no, do it again._

“No, c’mere,” Julian half slurs, pulling him back down again, no longer needing that coaxing hand, Parmak right back to attacking his mouth, slowly, deeply pushing his tongue past Julian’s lips with a series of drawn out throaty moans. 

Julian answers fiercely, hands sliding down, cupping Parmak’s ass through those thin pants, feeling the softness of a scholar, squeezing, feeling a light toss of Parmak’s hair as that drives him wild. Julian feels his feet slip out from under him, his body sinking down just a little more, thighs spreading wider, and his hands are back to his own body fumbling with the belt.

“Keep...” Parmak gasps the words against Julian mouth, wet insistent. “Yes... zat...” even more accent slipping now God it sounds wrecked already. Julian is more than happy to oblige, that belt coming undone, pulled loose, nearly whipping him as Parmak tugs it from the loops. Julian wastes no time pushing hands below that waist, feeling soft skin, feeling the lightly textured scales _so soft_ beneath his palms. 

He kneads, he spreads him, kissing, those tentative tongue tastes turning to wild sucks of the mouth, nipping of teeth. And Parmak is no longer content to merely rock, but to bounce, to quiver, and the moment Julian’s thumbs brush that small bump of his tailbone he nearly explodes. “Tsss... ssss.... hsssshss....” is slurred to his mouth interlaced with whimpers, Parmak’s face turned, head falling, forehead pillowed to Julian’s shoulder glasses nearly knocked clear off now as that vestigial protrusion is massaged, as Julian’s fingers sink into soft flesh. And he lets his left continue that tease to the sensitive coccyx, his right moving down while Parmak makes a fair attempt at trying to wiggle out of his pants while not moving off Julian with his heavier weight. “There... ya....I...”

And then Parmak stops still, his head snaps up, and Julian cannot figure out the cause. He stops as well, looking around not seeing whatever Parmak sees no matter how he cranes his head. But whatever it is, a flicker of the lamplight perhaps? Julian doesn’t know. He only knows that Parmak is extracting himself carefully, quickly, frowning as he looks down at Julian.

“I’m sorry... Very sorry I ah... Mmm you know I can’t say there’s any satisfactory explanation especially given the time that it seems we have. It’s not something I can talk about. Not now, not...” He looks to the far wall behind them again, adjusting those spectacles, eyes scanning for something that Julian still cannot see even when he sits up properly. He bites back a groan at the shift, at the feel of his clothing uncomfortably shifting over his cock.

“Just don’t tell me it’s your wife,” he jokes not feeling particularly comforted when there’s no immediate answer.

“No, just a somewhat unexpected entirely expected something else,” Parmak answers with a drum of fingers to his thigh. 

“Is everything alright? Should we alert the guard?” Of course the last thing Julian particularly wants to do is draw attention to himself with everything going on. Especially when he doesn’t seem to be any closer to Garak but if there’s some madman out there stalking the both of them-

“Oh no, no, nothing like that, you don’t need to worry on my account. But... But I may need to have a hmm... I’m sorry, Julian.” He continues to watch along the tent sides with almost unnerving intensity. “We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” That tone seems to assume a lot but there’s a faint undercurrent of hope, of uncertainty.

“Of course! I...” Julian struggles in earnest to think of something that doesn’t sound cheap, like he only wants to finish bedding him. Though admittedly at this exact moment that’s certainly at the forefront of his thoughts as he stands and admires Parmak’s back facing away from him, those pants having fallen low on one hip, showing a hint of faint ridges and skin. He really does want to taste that hip. He still wants to taste those toes. He also desperately wants to find out just what is-

“Good good I look forward to it.” He nods, still watching and Julian hastily gathers the rest of his clothing trying to make sense of it all when he hears it. There’s another soft, breathy hiss that isn’t quite audible even to his hearing. It very well may be an unconscious mouthing with only the barest breath behind it but it’s there nonetheless. And it stops him almost cold when he hears it. _“Garak...”_ caught in the air as he’s about to leave. It takes everything that he has to slowly keep walking.

 

* * *

 

As Kelas Parmak watches Julian’s retreating back thoughtfully, the lamp inside the tent is extinguished behind him. He allows the tent flap to close, making only a small adjustment before turning around. In the darkness, he sees Elim Garak’s silhouette as he carefully makes his way over a series of collapsed books.

“And here I thought I’d staked a fair claim on unexpected midnight visits.” Parmak says, walking over to the cot carefully, moving a few scrolls. Garak has never been particularly fond of sitting on the floor.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself on my account, my dear Kelas. I had heard one of your precious stacks collapsing and fearing for your life, I came rushing straight away.” Garak takes a few more steps looking at him intently. “Imagine my surprise seeing Doctor Julian Bashir stealing out of your tent like a hungry Lacorian orphan stuffing a pilfered regova egg in his mouth.” Parmak shakes his head as he continues a quick sort of the scrolls into three different open crates, thumb carefully noting the texture of the sealing ribbon.

“You were watching us then.”

“Well I might have joined in, but my invitation to your little evening soiree seems to have gotten lost somewhere along the way. Perhaps we might have one of the couriers flogged for the oversight to set an example. I’m thinking of Gerod,” Garak continues grandly. “I have it on good authority that he’ll scream the loudest.”

Parmak stops with that remark, a deep sigh as he sets another armful of scrolls back down on the cot.

“There’s no point in me making a space for you to sit down, is there Elim? You’ve no intention of doing anything but railing against me for the wrong that you feel I’ve committed and then running off, do you?”

“I would be a terribly poor friend if I didn’t point out an appalling error in judgment,” Garak remarks primly. Parmak sighs, looking down at the singular scroll in his hand; judging by its position on the bed likely a criticism of the author Vorak’s latest collection of short stories that he’d spoken with Julian about earlier. He turns it over in his hands thoughtfully. There were some who felt that Vorak work was not so much representative of the nature of the condition of the Cardassian proletariat but rather a subversive treatise influenced by outsiders. There were some who considered his homecoming after twenty years of imprisonment to be more of a curse than a blessing. _A lifetime of imprisonment commuted to freedom with the overthrow of the old Central Command only to be released to a lifetime of censure. There were probably as many people calling for his head as there were celebrating his release._ Parmak looks at Garak with a slight sideways turn of his head. Garak isn't wearing the customary green cloak he frequently dons in the chill of the desert night.

"You really did rush in here without thinking, didn't you, Elim? Are you cold? Your black cloak is there where I usually keep it in that trunk."

"That does seem to be the theme of the day, doesn’t it?”

“I picked this up for you earlier.” Parmak hands him the scroll and goes to the chest.

“You seem to have picked up a lot of things today.”

“Only a few necessities.” Parmak takes out the well work cloak making his way back over the clutter. Garak doesn’t protest when Parmak drapes it around his shoulders fussing with the cloak pin.

“He’s dangerous, Kelas.” Parmak’s hands stop with those words, those plain, undiluted words. He looks at his hands a long time. The scars that they bear have faded so as to hardly be noticeable.

“Life is dangerous, Elim,” he says to those hands as they smooth the fabric of that cloak. He looks at Garak, hands moving lightly on his shoulders. “Are you warm now?”

“Forgive me if I don’t find the matter of my thermal comfort to be of the greatest importance right now.” Parmak’s face is soft when he looks at him, when he steps forward and puts his arms around him firmly, trapping his hands at his sides. 

Like a well trained hound knowing how important such gestures are to their human masters, Garak endures and shuts his eyes seeming to find a small comfort in that embrace. Parmak has always been overly fond of those tactile displays and more importantly, he’s always warm. Their cheeks brush against each other. They stand there like that for some time.

“You never heed any of my advice, Kelas,” Garak says at last.

“And if you _were_ to advise me prior to this afternoon, Elim, what would you even have said?”

“I might have advised more caution in my affairs.” 

“You know, that’s exactly what you’d said to me after your interrogation.” Parmak laughs, turning his face into Garak’s neck, his breath tickling the ridges, making Garak’s eyes flutter shut.

“As always,” he says with a bit of unsteadiness, “I stand in awe of your glibness when speaking of years of imprisonment and that incident in particular.”

“I learned that from you, you know. A smile and a jaunty remark in the face of imminent danger.”

“I shudder to think what other character flaws of mine might have rubbed off on you.”

“Well fortunately, not your jealousy,” Parmak teases as he lets go.

“Jealousy?” Garak steps back indignantly. “Here I express my deepest heartfelt concern for your well being from a man that I assure you has far more nefarious intentions than merely sharing your bed, as delightful and glorious as that bed may be, and you accuse me of something as petty as jealousy.” His voice sounds almost petulant and Parmak cannot help but smile. He puts a hand up, Garak’s automatically raising in response, their palms meeting, fingertips lightly kissing.

“Is it so terrible that I want to know what he’s like? Why you spent so many years with him?”

“Terrible? Really, Kelas, if your motives were any more appallingly pure I don’t know that we could remain friends.”

“As if I would ever let you end our friendship over something so silly.” Parmak’s fingers curl around until he holds Garak’s hand. “You know that I’ll always be your friend, Elim... Perhaps Julian might... be our friend as well.” Garak shakes his head with an almost exasperated expression as he pulls away.

“I would have thought that the years had tempered your penchant for keeping unsavory company.” There’s a silent mischievous smirk in response to that. Garak defiantly ignores that baiting.

“You think I’m being foolish because I don’t know everything, because you didn’t tell me what happened between the two of you, at least not more beyond that fanciful tale of yours.

“But what you don’t realize is that you _always_ tell me everything that I need to know. Like that novel I was so proud writing during my incarceration. I thought I might make a mid life career change. I’d had so many wonderful ideas of living the life of an artist… That was going to be just the first of many experimental works. I was thoroughly convinced that I was going to be the next Vorak. And then you’d told me after you’d read it how it was completely arresting, unrivaled prose that would change the literary world as we know it. And that’s when I knew that I had no talent for it whatsoever.”

“I really don’t think you’ve heard a word I said.”

“I did. I do. I always hear everything you say.”

“Then please, hear me when I tell you that his intentions are far darker than you realize.”

“And what intentions might those be?”

“Well of course it should be obvious. He’s going to kill me.”

“Now why should he want to do that?”

“Why should any man ever want to take the life of another, my dear?”

Parmak is silent a long time before turning his back, navigating to the cot to continue its cleanup. his head bowed, his hair half hiding his face, the darkness obscuring the rest. Garak watches him, seeming to wait an eternity for the soft, long suffering words spoken next.

“Come to bed, Elim.”

 

* * *

 

“Is there a reason that you never look at me, doctor?” The question was a non sequitur from Julian’s initial tangent about Garak’s refusal to accept any payment for the new outfit that he was currently wearing. The aqua blue fabric still draped somewhat uncomfortably immodestly when Julian moved just the right way, the waist of the shirt tapered, pants silky, falling just below the knee. There was a protest that died on Julian’s lips that day in Garak’s shop when he saw in the mirror the way Garak looked at him. Julian immediately asked him to make the same cut in indigo and white even if it cost him half a month’s salary. Garak, while refusing payment, insisted that Julian’s word of mouth alone would more than repay him for the valuable cloth and use of his time. 

In fact when Julian had stopped in this afternoon to meet Garak for lunch he found the shop a bustling hum of customers. He thought they might need to reschedule after all. That had concerned him since he could never be quite sure when the migraines would come; they’d had to reschedule once already for that same reason. Julian had suffered through the pain earlier that morning and could at least be reasonably certain he had another day or two that would be good. Fortunately, Garak had assured him that the woman he’d hired to help was not only more than capable of running the stop for a few hours, but was imminently trustworthy as well.

Julian, who’d learned early on that Garak, beneath the cordial exterior had little inclination to trust anyone, was quite taken aback by such a bold statement until he saw exactly who it was Garak was referring to. He recognized her immediately; it was difficult not to. After all, there was much talk around the court of the less than reputable Quark’s- a place Jadzia Dax had frequented regularly and often invited him to come with. It wasn’t just Quark and his dabo girls, however, but Quark’s brother Rom and his wife Leeta who often set tongues to wagging. 

Julian remembered hearing tales of their arrival, the strange Ferengi and their colorful clothes, their gambling, and their liquor. Supposedly the girls had all worked in the nude before his Majesty’s chief of security threatened to have that “incorrigible den of iniquity” shuttered forever. Julian had listened, rapt, as Jadzia regaled him with the periodic tales of the longstanding game of cat and mouse between her lover and the mysterious Changeling. He’d had a suspicion that more than a few were exaggerated for her audience, but Leeta’s infamous dress even once she was forced to wear clothing, was not. Julian couldn’t help but see the irony of a society which considered a clothed woman an obscenity clashing with its polar opposite. Strangely enough, when he’d entered that afternoon, he almost didn’t recognize Leeta in the long, loose gown.

Leeta, as it turned out had a falling out with Quark over pay- apparently a woman earning a living wage was also forbidden in the Ferengi culture- and it was perfect timing that Garak was in need of a capable assistant and quick study. Julian was just thankful that his guilt over wearing such finery for free could finally be laid to rest. He was still acclimating to the feel of the sun on those parts of his skin, that faint “v” of his shirt already bringing a quick tan from the sun. Julian unconsciously fingered that neckline a few inches below his collarbone as he ate, unaware of Garak’s eyes on that expanse of golden skin. 

He considered the question, pausing only slightly, praying that it went unnoticed, as his eyes flit over the table setting. The small outdoor setting was private at this time of day- too early for dinner and too late for lunch- and they were the only ones seated, a series of aromatic dishes between them. Julian had noticed an impressive arrangement of vegetable discard growing ever larger on an extra plate that Garak had requested. It seemed to him the perfect opportunity to put off hopefully another day- another week- of having to answer that particular question. 

“Is there a reason that half your lunch always ends up being thrown away?” Julian fired back. He counted pepper, eggplant, tomato, potato, trying to figure out the correlation. “If you don’t like the food here, you might have said something.” He heard Garak sigh, watching another piece of tomato dropped onto the plate. It had started with the eggplant. Julian could understand that, eggplant wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but then it was tomato, and pepper, and by the time they reached potatoes, Julian was beginning to wonder exactly what Cardassians _did_ eat. 

Garak wouldn’t touch anything with yogurt or cheese either. Not ghee not... _Well really Julian_ _that_ _dietary restriction at least is somewhat common._ It was certainly possible for there to be some lactose intolerance in Cardassians so he made sure to include non dairy dishes in his lunch request but this, this was getting to be-

“You humans and your nightshades,” Garak answered at last with a disgust that nearly made him look up to see if Garak’s expression truly matched his tone.

“Nightshades?” Julian asked somewhat dumbly, even as he recalled his studies, specifically poisons; _Solinaceae_ , the nightshade family of which most plants were poisonous and only a few edible. But those few that were edible tended to encompass quite a large staple of the human diet.

Julian sighed as another potato went onto the plate.

“Garak, the sauce that the beans are simmered in is tomato so if you were going to have a reaction you’d have had it long before now. I know there’s nothing in Cardassian biology that processes vitamin D differently than us, in the digestive system.” There was silence to that and he dared a glance up once it stretched to an uncomfortable level. His eyes met Garak’s staring at him intently and he found himself staring back. Julian wasn’t sure if he remembered to blink. He certainly didn’t remember to keep chewing, that piece of goat in his mouth grinding to a halt beneath his teeth, almost nervously played around with his tongue. 

Garak continue looking at him, and while Julian had tended to be a miserable reader of people and their intentions, Garak’s was somehow quite clear. 

“Yes, but you might not be aware, my dear Julian,” _my dear Julian..._ “that these plants grow quite abundantly in the Union.  However as numerous as they are, as beautiful their color, as tempting as their fruit may be...” Garak delicately set another piece of eggplant on the plate. “It would be obscene to even consider placing it in one’s mouth. It’s a taboo- perhaps an ignorant one held over from the days of the Ancient Hebitians. But nonetheless, it’s something that we cling stubbornly, doggedly to as a matter of some misguided superstition.” 

There was a small upturn of the right corner of Garak’s mouth as his eyes dropped down to the exposed skin of Julian’s collarbone. Julian definitely stopped breathing as that look made himself obvious. He was too far gone to look and see if anyone else was watching. He could feel his left hand on his thigh beneath the table drum fingers absently, almost reaching to Garak’s leg insanely, underneath.

“I can imagine there must be some analogous school of thought here as well, perhaps not to nightshades, but to a forbidden fruit of a different nature. And as with your beloved nightshades here in the capital my dear, I assure you that whatever that taboo may be, Cardassians hold no such superstitions.” Garak looked him in the eyes again, hot, heavy, that metaphor making it quite clear that Garak knew exactly why it was that Julian refused to look him in the eyes, and surely the horrid lustful stare that Julian must have been firing back only confirmed that suspicion. He didn’t know whether or not to flee or to fling himself across the table. Julian settled for remembering to breathe and immediately found that piece of meat sucked down his throat, getting lodged in his windpipe long enough to trigger a violent fit of choking.

He imagined the concern in Garak’s eyes as the brief amusement quickly faded. He was too busy staring at the plates, clutching his throat as that chair moved and Garak rose to his feet. Julian was dimly aware of his legs kicking his own chair back so that he could stand and make it easier for Garak to assist with dislodging the food. He wasn’t sure if it was fortune or not that one final hearty cough sent it flying to the stone beneath their feet. Julian was sure he spent the next several moments trying to regain his breaths, realizing that Garak hadn’t returned to his seat. 

He was about to turn his head, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin that had been folded across his lap when he felt hands on his shoulders. He could feel Garak’s thumbs on the cloth, skirting the edge of the collar and his bare skin. He felt his lungs rattle unsteadily as his heart immediately started racing. Julian stared once more at Garak’s plate, seeing the red, the violet, the kaleidoscope of colors artfully arranged like one of the stained glass cathedrals of the Federation’s Western cities. He allowed Garak’s words to repeat and he licked his lips nervously, feeling a squeeze to his shoulders. Julian looked out to the side street where the patio sat, seeing in the distance the bustle of people on the main street none of them giving even a curious look down. 

Feeling bold, Julian reached his right hand up, crossing it over his chest to lay it over Garak’s left. He squeezed lightly, knowing his hand was trembling. He was going to die. Whether he sinned or not, there wasn’t a damn thing that was going to save him. He was strangely sure of that. Julian’s head bowed down chin nearly touching his chest as he allowed himself to sink into that murky abyss. He wanted to pray. He desperately wanted to reach out for something, but found only the soft scales of the back of Garak’s hand. _You always told me father, that the damned don’t get wishes. That’s the last lie of yours that I’m ever going to believe._ Julian was surprised that Garak had maintained that silence for so long, but he knew that it was up to him to understand, to acquiesce. He smiled nervously, seeing the geometric shapes of that miniature art piece shape in his malformed mind to two men, two bodies under the cover of night. Yes, Julian understood perfectly. 

“So then if I promise to taste that illusory poison Garak, do you?”

“Oh, but you already have, my dear Julian. You already have.” 

Julian would swear later that those were the only honest words that Garak had ever spoken to him.


	4. Dahlia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystery galore as Garak appears in the present and Julian tries to make sense of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case anyone's curious about the title. It's "Cross" for double cross, triple cross, what have you So there's a lot of intrigue but I'm quite excited to be moving more towards the heart of it and I'm hoping to maintain the suspense and secrets til the necessary time. This is a lot of fun and hopefully a bit different. Thank you all for reading and supporting me!

Julian is surprised when he sees Enabran Tain up close. Or rather, as close as he’s likely to ever get. The Federation of United Kingdoms is seated a section over from the Cardassians in that monstrous arena that they had processed to earlier. But that’s close enough with his sensitive vision to make out Tain’s outline, a bit of his face if he squints hard and looks closely. Julian had actually been trying to see Garak, but the seat that would be reserved for the prince is strangely empty. He doesn’t see Parmak either, but it’s possible that his duties are keeping him occupied. Julian has a brief flash of curiosity at the absence of both men, but dismisses that thought. 

 _So suspicious, Julian, for all you know he has a bellyache. Garak always did have an overly sensitive stomach._ He pauses at that, quickly looking away from his study of the calm, older man lest he be caught staring. _Don’t draw attention to yourself, Julian, remember. You know how to do that right? It wasn’t terribly long ago that you’d managed to live your life without making a regular spectacle of yourself._ Last night certainly wasn’t it. Julian had quickly scurried from Parmak’s tent amidst a flurry of snickers and he could swear one of the guards was whispering that his amorous intentions had likely been politely rebuffed by the good doctor. He also thought he’d heard a few hands changing money much to his humiliation and he had half a mind to tell the lot of them that he was doing just fine thank you very much. 

Julian winces at that memory, starting to feel an unpleasant warmth around him. They’re shielded, down far in the pit that the tournament is held, but the mass of bodies congregated together so closely as the sun begins to break shadows over the horizon is warming even the cool stone beneath them. The limestone cliffs a kilometer out from the festival site, closer to where the opening ceremonies were staged, had been carved out some millennia ago by the ancients of one of their respective civilizations. The Klingons claimed it was Kahless after the Molor’s defeat to celebrate the victory. The Vulcans believed that it was the site where Surak and his followers founded the original T’Karath Sanctuary lost now to time. And so it went. 

Julian had occasion to wonder how long it had truly stood for surely the ancient tribes didn’t possess the tools for such intricate detail. He was almost inclined himself to believe it some masterful propaganda maintained by the ruling classes for an arena created for this very purpose some centuries back at the most but he’d never dared question such things aloud. Garak had dared. Garak had questioned, had postulated, had set his mind in all sorts of directions that it never should have wandered. But that was in the past and Julian is too old now for such fancies of youth.

He isn’t, however, too old to appreciate the Ceremony of Sunrise as the music begins, first with the music, the sound of the oulds, of the flutes reaching his ears from the center as the Sultan’s musicians come out first. They’re followed by the dancers, and Julian sees some of the Dabo girls from Quark’s leading the rest- on loan he’s heard for a small price. The costumes are marvelous as the processions of performers from all corners of the world meet, the magicians, the acrobats from as far out as the badlands. It’s a stunning display as the fire eaters from the west come, the final performance before the combatants make their way to center stage. 

He makes sure to applaud, to whistle and yell as loudly as he can when he sees Jadzia strut out in her outfit designed specifically for the ceremony; some functionally useless sexually enticing bronze brassiere which exposes the navel and leaves little else to the imagination. He watches her in a series of graceful katas with the _bat’leth_ dangerous, beautiful and just damn impressive. There’s a particularly loud cheer that makes him shake his head at the nonsense- that is until he sees her alternate walk out behind her. Chakotay, the rumored Maquis sympathizer, as well wears nothing but mantle with the black and red cloak of the House of Sisko flying behind him and some sliver of cloth low on his waist. Julian almost looks away as Chakotay twirls the massive sword, arcing, circling, until he realizes that would likely look even more suspicious. _Well it couldn’t look any more suspicious than half drooling over yourself now, could it?_

That settles it. Julian decides that now would be the perfect time to relieve himself, and he quickly makes his way back up the carved stone steps and out to the plateau surrounding it. He takes that time to look around as well, knowing that there will still be a lot more display before the fights begin; Julian isn’t terribly interest in blood sport aside, only that he’ll be the one to patch Jadzia back together after she and Martok battle. He’s thankful to find the area most empty and decides that he still has time to wander before he’s absolutely needed. There are, after all, several different stalls set up atop the hard ground in the shade of the massive rock formations surrounding where enterprising merchants have set up wares and places for drink. 

Julian catches sight of Quark still taking last minute wagers on the fight for those content to drink and hear the action second hand. Julian can see, a relay of runners ready to report the action minute by minute through a series of hand signals and mirrors leading back to the top of the stadium. Another Ferengi in a colorful robe is standing near the bar, loudly announcing the entrance of the first two competitors. Julian sighs, feeling restless, and decides to take a detour back, meandering slowly away from the massive crowds and towards the remote rock formations rocks.

He finds, much to his embarrassment that he isn’t the only one to have had a similar thought. However it seems the majority of those mingling amongst those secluded spaces are couples- and the occasional extra- deciding that there’s better action to be found outside the tournament than it in. Julian turns the corner of a wide base of a large rock that looks like a massive vertical hammer springing forth from the ground and is a whirl of awkward apologies as he nearly walks into two giggling women half covered beneath a sheet. 

They ignore him quickly enough and he moves further out, making a note of the time that it takes so that he won’t be gone past the first few fights. There will be exhibition matches before the main event and Julian can very well let Doctor Crusher and her expert team field the lot of them; his duties lie with the Sultan and Jadzia and his majesty had informed him quite plainly that he would only be allowed to attended provided that he loosened up and actually enjoyed himself. Julian sighs as he finds a series of short stone cylinders proving small shade and seemingly a fair deal of privacy. He’d made a note of that particular formation during the procession, noting that it’s on the way back towards the main encampment and festival.

As he realizes that, he also realizes that he’s feeling a bit parched and could probably do with a bite to eat as well. His stomach has been a jumble of nerves as he’s tried to understand what he’s even doing. _The mission was Garak, it’s always been Garak, and whatever you tell yourself you’ve no business messing around with Tain’s personal physician. You can’t put this off, you’ve only got three days to get close to him. You haven’t even_ _seen_ _him yet up close to confirm that the man they call the prince_ _is_ _even Garak. It could very well be some poor soul with the same name or the same face and no relation otherwise. What are you doing, Julian? You’re no killer. Yes, you promised father, but where was that even coming from? Guilt? Anger?_

 _You should know that sowing emotions like that have never done anyone a single bit of good. Forgiveness, right? Isn’t that what Jadzia’s always saying to you? Isn’t that what Kai Opaca had said when you met her? She took one look at you and told you to let go._ Julian frowns, his walk slowing. _Even if you could ever forgive him, Julian… Even if you could let that go… what father said... what Garak plans to do… it isn’t a matter of justice or vengeance. It’s a matter of stopping a tragedy. That’s why you became a doctor, after all. To heal pain, to save lives. Well that’s exactly what you’re doing. You know that sometimes there are sacrifices that need to be made for the greater good… You learned that at the academy…_

And Julian heard loud and clear- and could never reconcile that even after his years as a doctor. Julian’s never been about sacrifice- not his patients, not as long as there’s been breath in his body has he ever been willing to ever let one go. He exhales sharply, approaching those stones, hitting one with the side of his fist as he stands there and prays for some sign of what he should do. Julian shuts his eyes tightly, pressing his forehead to the cool of the stone as he lets the quiet of the gentle breeze relax him. He thinks of Kelas Parmak, of that smile, and those hands holding his between them warm- so very warm- his lips again pressing to Julian’s fingers in his mind. He thinks of Garak- of those eyes, always playful, always mysteriously watching him when he thought that Julian wasn’t looking. _I wanted to save you too, Garak. I wanted-_  

Julian’s head snaps up as he hears the rustle of footsteps coming behind him. His instincts are quick and sharp, and his hand absently falls to the pocket of his right sleeve knowing the sharp pick is concealed. As his fingers dance over the wooden handle, he feels a faint wave of nausea. Somehow he remembers the way that pick feels driving into the back of a man’s skull- the resistance being met, annihilated. He lets go of it immediately, unable to recall when earlier that day he’d even placed it there. It’s the heat. It has to be the heat. That’s the only explanation he has for why he sees Elim Garak standing there before him now.

 _It’s a dream. Of course you’re dreaming, Julian._ And any moment he’ll look up from that dream reverie as and see Garak standing there in front of him as he is now, brilliant blue eyes looking into his as if he’s never been gone a single second. _Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe nothing in the last ten years._ And perhaps than, as now, Julian won’t be able to breathe. _He didn’t leave. He didn’t kill anyone. Nothing ever..._ Julian really truly cannot breathe and he cannot for the life of him fathom if that’s because he’s forgotten how or if he’s in fact desperately trying without success. _Stop lying to yourself, Julian. You know that’s a lie just as you know you’re not dreaming him standing there._

Julian blinks, that clearing of his vision doing nothing to clear the vision of Elim Garak in the flesh. _You tried to kill me._ That’s the next vicious thought that seizes him. Julian opens his own mouth, trying to draw some sort of breath, seeing everything around Garak fall out of focus again as he does. _You killed Picard_. He sees Garak’s hair slicked back, mussed, a few errant strands falling to his face. _You started that fire._ He sees the dark armor- black leather accentuating that pale gray skin beautifully, nothing like the modest Tailor’s garb of his memory. _You killed all of them._ He’s shaking. _And now you have the nerve..._ He’s certain he’s shaking. _And now you have the nerve to_ _dare_ _…_

“Garak,” he forces through his closing clenching throat, a strangled half sob, the bitterness, the torment, the anguish, wrapped around that word until he may very well squeeze the life out of it. He can’t manage more than that. He knows that if he even tries he’ll- Julian almost goes for the pick again in that moment, but as much as that blood pumps violently and covers his vision in that hateful red stain, Julian feels a strange calm settle over him. He takes the first step forward, Garak’s name spoken again, but this time whispered softly on his lips. There isn’t a denial to that address. Julian had been half afraid there would be some instinctive denial to that identification. But there isn’t. There’s nothing but quiet. Garak wears that pleasant smile armor back. It’s that mask perfectly in place- that mask Julian used to hate- but it reminds him so vividly of the Garak that he knew that it makes an anxious lump swell in his chest. _It’s so easy to hate you, seeing you again. But then why do I feel like this looking at you? I hate you. I_ _hate_ _you. I…_

“I missed you,” Julian whispers calling on every bit of his ability as an actor in that moment. He’s almost terrified to find that he doesn’t have to. He hears a distant voice echoing from a bitter memory stained somehow with tears. _“That’s your weakness, Bashir. You’re incapable of hate...”_ Julian takes another step, Garak not yet having moved, looking at him still unreadable, eyes watching as Julian raises a hand, reaching out to him. “I missed you I…” He swallows down the lie as he takes Garak’s hand. Garak lets him limply, loosely. “I thought you were dead,” Julian whispers, letting their foreheads touch, closing his eyes. He can’t look at him. _I have to kill you._ Again Garak allows the action. Julian is beginning to wonder if he’s not seeing some mirage in the desert at this point- if he’s not really banging his head against the cold rock. But Garak is warm and Julian can hear, can feel him draw in a breath, the intimacy of that gesture that Parmak had shown him evident. _I’m going to kill you._ That intimacy is a weapon, he thinks clinically, not sure where that dispassionate voice comes from. _It’s just another weapon to use against him_. No, he knows that voice. It’s just been so long since he’s heard it that he-

“Are you sure, my dear Julian, that this is the tact that you wish to take?” The question is a strange one. Julian draws back quickly, looking at him once more. Of all the rejoinders he might have expected it catches him off guard. But Julian is strangely quick, squeezing Garak’s hand.

“Of course it is,” he rushes in without hesitation. And only then does Garak squeeze his hand back tightly- almost painfully, that smile still never leaving his face.

“I suppose then, that there’s hope for you yet.”

And those are the last words that Julian remembers as Garak leans to kiss him, before there’s nothing but blackness.

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me your Eminence, great and venerable Lord and Master of the mighty Cardassian Empire, may she and your Eminence both live eternal.” Garak enters the darkened chamber with a grand flourish, face stone serious as he speaks the words. He bows deeply, reverently, waiting for acknowledgment. In spite of the unexpected meeting, he’s still on time. From the modest seat, only a few scant meters from him, Enabran Tain looks up from a thick green robe, likely drawn over an equally warming tunic. It’s cool in that small space but no heat is dare used that might produce any odor. The light comes only from carefully crafted lamps containing glowing gaseous elements- one of Cardassia’s tightly guarded secrets. The light is faint, one small stick held by Tain’s wide fingers as he carefully the scroll in his other. He doesn’t look up, sitting there, almost as if waiting to see how long Garak might hold that improbable dip. His eyes catch a glimpse of the legs as they begin to tremble and that balance wavers only slightly. Still, Garak does not move until the page is set aside and Tain sighs almost irritably at last.

“Is it really your intention to stand there and play this game, Garak?” Garak hides a smirk, addressing the thin cloth covering the ground as he answers.

“Games are for fools and children. I believe that’s what you said to me once. But perhaps we might have to reexamine what we consider a game. I would imagine the ruler of a mighty empire skulking beneath the ground like a child playing an elaborate round of tunnels to be playing a game, but then again, I’ve been told I’m a poor judge of these things.” Tain snorts waving his hand at Garak.

“A poor judge of my mood as well then. Stand up, Garak.” Garak obeys, hands clasped behind his back as he approaches; Tain’s mood is exactly as he’d judged it. The banter is a distraction; Garak has never been fond of small dark places. Parmak once postulated that he must have suffered some spiritual trauma in a former incarnation. But then again, Parmak is always far too open to metaphysical nonsense. Healing is as much of the mind and spirit as the body he’s fond of saying. Garak, for his part, has never met the man whose spirit could overcome a sharp blade across the throat. That sort of nonsense was exactly the reason it only took looking at him for four hours to break him.

That memory makes Garak cold a moment, and he hides a shiver behind a shrug of his shoulders.

“If you let Corat sit on the throne any more, he might begin to think that he truly owns it,” he advises cautiously, referring to the double currently seated at the arena to watch the fights.

“I’m considering Corat,” Tain answers cryptically.

“A pity. I was always fond of him.”

“Considering,” Tain warns. “Not decided.”

“Of course. But I imagine that such talk is the reason that I’ve been… summoned.”

“It is. You’re aware of what the Maquis plan for the festival.” For the festival, not for him. Garak snorts.

“Some token protest no doubt to strike fear into the hearts of their devil lizard enemies and the bloated slug king that leads them… Their words of course, not mine.” Garak chooses not to make mention of his own colorful descriptor of “silver tongued mud snake”; admittedly, it’s grown on him. Tain chooses not to acknowledge his exposition.

“Humans have always been frightfully shortsighted. I have no doubt it’s their intent to use the attack to force a withdraw of our settlers from the demilitarized zone and likely grant some of their land back.”

“Possibly to stop killing them as well. But I only offer that as speculation.” Garak ignores the fact that many of those killed in the past ten years have been by his own hand; he has his own reasons for that after all that have nothing to do with Tain.

“Whatever their foolish motivation, and you and I know that terrorists are the most foolish and hopeless of any rabble, we’re going to let them succeed.” Garak does not allow himself to be silent for any stretch of time at that. It’s taken him years to claw his way back up to this most tenuous of positions after his “betrayal” and only then because as Tain has been forced to concede, there’s still no one more capable.

“Of course,” he agrees having absolutely no intention of allowing Julian to take his life whether Tain orders it or not. He keeps his expression neutral as Tain laughs.

“Ah, Garak, I’ve no doubt that first thing tomorrow you’ll be on your way to Andromeda while some prisoner wearing your face bleeds all over those lovely sheets our beloved doctor Parmak has gifted you. No, I’ve always valued your sense of self preservation almost as much as your _loyalty_. It’s served me well over the years.” 

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Tain shifts his bulk on the seat and Garak is reminded with a faint creak of bones just exactly how old he is. In body perhaps, but never in mind, he amends.

Garak glances around briefly to the carefully constructed underground room known only to a select few. They’d arrived earlier and dug out the space, deep in the sand, careful to reinforce it minimally with the wood growing deep in the jungles. It was buried, this living tomb right below Tain’s tent where the double Corat sleeps and allows Tain to direct the action carefully from below. Garak is certain that Tain hasn’t spent more than a few hours at most above ground since their arrival here. Corat is perhaps worthless at best in the interrogation room, but he’s a veritable sponge and a quick study when it comes to mannerisms and behavior. 

Tain knew exactly what he was doing when selecting him for the assignment; there were times when Garak couldn’t be sure if it were Corat that he was speaking with or Tain. He didn’t dare allow himself to slip and find out. Garak cannot help but admire the cunning, as well as the cruelty in Garak’s role as his son. Yes, his son playing a role that he will never truly be allowed to assume but for that guise. It’s his punishment, of course, one of many for not just his betrayal but also for causing the violent change in government in the first place. Garak has accepted it without complaint.

But now it would appear that Tain has tired of the assumed mantle of leadership and Garak, while disappointed that the Empire will lose a man who in his estimation was the competent pragmatist that it sorely needed, is thankful to once again be out of the spotlight. He’s always operated best from the shadows. And those shadows cast now along Tain’s face as he speaks again, softly, deliberately.

“When you shine a light on the darkness then people forget to be afraid of it. And when the rabbits no longer respect the darkness, that’s when the wolves come for them.” _Ah, of course. The order cannot possibly continue as it is. Lok is capable but not extraordinary, and you know that is exactly where Tain belongs._ Still, it’s in Garak’s nature to needle him, the walls feeling like they’re closing in in that cold dark.

“I’ve heard our people likened to many an animal, but I must say the noble _leporidae_ is a first.”

“All men are prey, Elim. It’s their natural condition. It’s only when you pull enough of them together that they begin to feel brave, accomplished. It’s only when they’re molded to it that they learn to become the predators.”

“I take it you plan on spending your retirement from public service in the creation of this grand manifesto.” Tain laughs.

“Spare me your curses and well wishes. You and I are destined to have the same retirement date, Garak. This will be our opportunity to retreat back to where the most capable of us best serve. And the Maquis and their foolish pawn are going to delivery us that opportunity. Yes, you are going to die, my noble son,” Tain promises, a mocking to that title, “But not a day before I order it.”

“They say the Ancients had their servants buried with them,” Garak offers as he looks up and swears that ceiling is beginning to cave in.

“Ah, whatever would I do without you, Garak?” Tain says affably. Garak stiffens warily at the tone. One must never strike in anger; some of Garak’s greatest pain has been endured with that gentle fatherly smile. A smile- the greatest blessing and the cruelest weapon.

“I believe you’ve said on occasion that you’d sleep far more comfortably.”

“Perhaps. But not tonight. And not tomorrow night. For now, you need to live. Play the human’s game. I don’t imagine that should prove too difficult. You’ve always had a weakness for those idealistic little rabbits. But now, I believe we can consider that weakness something we can use, wouldn’t you say?”

Garak ducks his head and nods, feeling a cold chill at that tone. No, There’s no way that he could know. Not even Tain, not even _he_ could know that-

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Garak bows again, ready to take his leave.

“It was a pleasure as always, your eminence,” Garak says with a smile, stopped mid turn when Tain’s voice speaks again.

“Do you remember Garak, when you were a child and you’d asked Mila if you might keep a pet? Some chittering rodent you’d found scurrying around the gardens. Do you remember what she’d said to you?”

“A foolish sentiment.” Of course he remembered it quite vividly. Just as he remembered that disobedience. And then being forced to kill it with his own hands.

“And have you kept that directive in mind?” Garak swallows, glad that he’s no longer facing Tain.

“I’ve always obeyed your directives whether real or imagined.”

“Ah, dear Elim, sometimes I think you actually believe that.” Garak is wise enough to know not to dispute the point further but merely to wait for Tain to tell him exactly how he’s disappointed him today.

“There are some men,” Tain continues, “who would argue that belief is at the core of truth, and therefore a man who believes his own lies cannot possibly be lying.”

“A foolish sentiment.” Garak repeats. He knows quite well that is not a sentiment shared by Enabran Tain.

“I might be able to overlook one little rabbit for my favorite mistake, Elim. But not two.” Garak hears the words, acutely aware of his own breathing and how loud it seems right now.

“Far be it for me to question your sources when I’m sure they’re far superior to mine. But in this one instance I believe that you’re mistaken. ”

“Oh?” A dangerous sound that Garak ignores for better or worse.

“I don’t keep rabbits any longer,” Garak says glibly as he walks, almost defiantly towards the narrow tunnel leading out. “But I shall keep your words as always, close to my heart.” 

Yes, they might have been rabbits, once upon a time, Julian and Kelas, but not any longer. Garak had seen to that himself.

 

* * *

 

The first face Julian sees when he opens his eyes is not Elim Garak’s but Kelas Parmak’s. The flash of disappointment is quickly enveloped with a fast rush of excitement. He has to blink a few times, his mouth unpleasantly dry and sandy as Parmak helps him sit up, the two of them shaded by the large rock. There’s a skin of water passed to his lips and he’s careful to drink from it slowly. Julian nearly panics when he realizes that he was unconscious but looks to the sun’s positioning and realizes that it wasn’t nearly as long as he’d feared. He opens his mouth to speak but Parmak is faster.

“Prince Garak asked me to see to you,” Parmak informs him from his kneeling position, sitting back on his feet with an ease that would be the envy of men half his age. Julian notes that Parmak seems to have some strange garment tied around his waist over the loose tank top and familiar pants with a cloth sack next to him. There’s no doubt it’s probably the remnants of whatever dress clothes he was supposed to be wearing. “He said your seeing him was too great a shock for you but he couldn’t wait to be sure.”

“I doubt he put it that succinctly,” Julian says with a snort, without thinking, almost cursing himself out loud for the slip. Parmak merely smiles as if he were part of that inside joke as well, patting the top of his hand.

“His exact words were “My dear Kelas, I had the earlier good fortune of running into an old acquaintance along the road back to the encampment and while mere words cannot begin to describe my elation at our fateful encounter, I’m afraid that our impromptu meeting was more of a surprise than he could properly accommodate, though I wouldn’t rule out a heat related malady either. If you could possibly see any way to tend to him in my absence I will be eternally in your debt.”

Julian shakes his head, sitting up.

“That sounds like him, alright.” He looks towards the ground uncomfortably. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag, isn’t it? That we… know each other…”

“Was it supposed to be a secret?” Parmak doesn’t sound particularly surprised or concerned. Julian looks over to see him writing in a bound book, not looking at him.

“No,” he says perhaps too quickly. “Nothing like that I just… ah… I didn’t want you to think my interest in you was motivated by… something else.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to think that my acquaintance would be a sure path to Elim.” The scratch of that quill continues absently. “It’s a poorly kept secret that Elim is one of my dearest friends, but you know how he covets his secrets.” Parmak speaks with a familiarity that Julian irrationally envies. For all the time they knew each other, were intimate, he’s never felt that he ever really knew Garak at all. _But that doesn’t matter, Julian. You don’t need to know him. Not like his dearest…_

“You’re Garak’s Kelas!” Julian exclaims suddenly, recalling the book, recalling the way that Garak would frequently mention him in passing, in some story or another, once, oddly in bed as strange as that was. But even with all that mention, Julian had begun to wonder if there even _was_ a Kelas Parmak or if that name wasn’t some allegorical nonsense or some archetypical character from myth. Julian hadn’t made the connection with the names when he’d met him either, chalking it up to some common tradition. Why should he? Garak had said Kelas Parmak had died years ago. _Should’ve known that was just another damn lie he told you._

“Garak’s Kelas?” Julian, not known for being the most astute when it comes to reading the atmosphere- as Keiko O’Brien would say- can tell nonetheless that somehow that was _not_ the right thing to say.

Julian isn’t quite sure if that expression is one of anger or something else. It’s calm, extremely calm, which seems unusual compared to the usual open expression he wears. Parmak closes the book and absently brushes his pants off. He seems troubled though perhaps not angry.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to offend you. It’s just that I… ah…” Somehow he doesn’t think saying that he thought Parmak was dead is the right answer in any circumstance.

“There’s no offense. No…” Parmak stands up. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid. I think you’re conflating human concepts of…” he makes a vague gesture with his hand. “No, that’s not it.” Julian is on his feet as well, though perhaps a bit too quickly as he feels a touch of vertigo. He leans back against the rock as he hears the book drop, finding Parmak almost flush against him suddenly, hands on his shoulders, a hand moving to his neck, to his forehead examining him.

“Really,” Julian says unable to help savor the warmth of those hands. “I’ve an awful tendency to say things that have no sense to them.”

“It was a sensible conclusion given the information you had… I’m sure… whatever impression that Elim gives it’s intended to be the wrong one. It usually is.” Parmak speaks clinically, calmly as he checks Julian’s pulse. “Your pulse is fast,” he says only inches from Julian’s face and Julian wonders madly if that’s intentional or not. He stops wondering when Parmak steps back and retrieves the book. “Of course it’s the natural human physiological result of close body proximity… of a male or female or other to which one feels sexual attraction.” Those fingers drum on the book absently while Julian ponders what exactly Parmak means by other.

“I’m fine, really. Ehm… can we forget I said anything perhaps? If it’s a sore point I…” And why else would a man say another was dead if there wasn’t some sore point?

“Again, you’re not understanding,” Parmak looks over at him speculatively and it’s not entirely pleasant. “There is no Garak’s Kelas _.” Ah. Right. Bad parting of ways then._ “Just as there is no State’s Kelas.” _Or maybe not._ Julian has no idea what he’s trying to say. “Do you understand?” _Not in the slightest._ Julian opens his mouth and shuts it again. He doesn’t need to shake his head. Parmak looks at him making Julian feel impossibly young. “No, I don’t imagine that you would.”

“What about Julian’s Kelas?” He says that stupidly, thinking of all the young ladies he’s charmed with such bold lines when there weren’t any stakes or any real risk of them even accepting. The completely blank expression that Parmak shoots him in answer makes the last tiny quivering bit of his ego shrink back into the dirt.

“You won’t get to Garak through me,” Parmak says to him matter of factly as he retrieves the water skin from the ground as well. There isn’t much that Julian can say to that but he’s also acutely aware that saying nothing would be far more damning.

“You don’t believe that I want you for just you?” He takes the skin as it’s handed to him. _What are you saying, Julian? The man just told you that you’re not getting to Garak through him. There’s no need to continue this ridiculous charade._

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re an incredibly attractive man.” _And I want to know if everything that Garak ever told me about you is true._

“No. I’m not.” _Like that stubbornness…_  

“I’m not arguing a subjective matter with you.” Now Garak on the other hand would argue it until the wheels fell off…

Parmak isn’t Garak, Far from it.

“Alright.” There’s a nod to that as Parmak turns, seeming to consider the matter settled. Julian sees today that his hair is plaited into a long tail swinging behind him. Parmak is already throwing back on that garment around his waist that Julian can see is a dark green coat.

“You’re just going to take me at my word?” Julian’s sure he sounds incredulous but in his experience that’s the sort of response that usually followed up with some eternal harboring of ill feeling- at least if Miles O’Brien is anything to go by.

“Shouldn’t I?” Julian sees the hopeless looking wrinkles of that coat and can only imagine how Garak would despair to see it. There’s an odd cold feeling that Julian finds to the ease in which these thoughts insinuate themselves into his mind. As if this is normal. As if this is okay. As if Garak isn’t the monster that he’s sworn to destroy in some divinely sanctioned retribution. That upsets him more than he can quite understand.

“Of course! I mean… Well... People _lie_ you know.” As soon as he speaks the words, he realizes how completely stupid such a statement that is to anyone who’s known Garak for any length of time. Julian opens his mouth but shuts it again quickly, taking a long drink. The water is cool and refreshing.

“No one lies,” Parmak says stunning him with the finality of those words. Julian thinks he really believes that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone lies.”

“Is it a human custom to resort to ad hominem attacks so early in a debate? Or is that because your argument is going to be weak?”

“My argument is not- First off, ‘don’t be ridiculous is an idiomatic expression and second off…” Julian trails off seeing a small smirk twitching the corner of Parmak’s mouth. He laughs, not even realizing how badly he needed that release of tension. Parmak laughs as well- quite loudly in fact, with his full face, that laughter drawing out until Julian has to lean back on that stone hard, knees starting to buckle. His head dips forward, dots starting to form in front of his eyes. Julian takes another drink. The water is cool and refreshing. When he looks up, he sees Parmak, right there, the book set down on top of the bag. There’s still a grin on his face as he steps closer.

“Lie to me, Julian.”

“I… beg your pardon?” Julian feels almost foolish as his head quickly darts around, feeling strangely as if the two of them are engaged in some illicit activity. But no, there’s no one else about, the two tall pillars shading them, hiding them rather neatly from the south east sun in the neat “L” that they form. Parmak repeats the request holding up his hand.

“Here. Put your hand here and tell me a lie.”

“Is this some sort of magic trick?” Julian asks him as he places his right hand against Parmak’s. In spite of the amused denial, Julian almost thinks that it is, feeling almost immediate warmth when their skin touches. “I know that there are psychological tricks… that there are components to deceit such as increased respiration, movement of the pupils, extraneous blinking but right now…”

“It’s a matter of the body. The body, the spirit the soul, if you will. Our bodies, our deepest selves want to be connected to each other. They want to be united, they want to be one. That’s what the Ancients believed.” Julian looks at their hands meeting, at their fingertips touching.

“Is that what you believe?”

“Do you know,” Parmak allows their fingers to thread, “that my people believe touch to be a sacred intimacy? You might think that we don’t consider it important but that’s not correct. We Cardassians like to hold onto our most valuable possessions.” _Yes, like Garak and his secrets._ Julian isn’t sure who squeezes first. He only knows that their hands lock tighter together. “But I’ve never understood why keep that warmth to yourself. If all that our spirits want is to go back to one another...” Julian isn’t sure when it happened but his eyes have fallen closed, those words spoken against his mouth, breath to breath. 

And so he breathes When Parmak is silent, Julian doesn’t answer him but instead allows that life to pulse between them slowly and steadily until the world nearly falls out of focus before being set somehow perfectly back into balance. He becomes acutely aware not just of skin, but of scent. There’s a common story that tells the cobras always smell of cucumbers, and to smell that sweet scent means certain death. And maybe it does. And so defiantly, Julian licks that scent from Parmak’s mouth, a soft taste at first three swipes before it’s met with a tongue lapping back, not urgently but slowly. Their joined hands drop down. Parmak presses against him- chest, stomach, standing straddling Julian’s left leg, arm to arm as well. Not hard, but gently, lightly as if Julian’s body were a continuation of his own.

“Julian,” Parmak breathes his name like a benediction. 

“Yes?”

“Tell me a lie, now, Julian.”

“I...” He tries to think of something, anything from Parmak being an inveterate imbecile to the sky being green but they all flash by so quickly that he can’t seem to grasp hold of just one.

“Do you want me to help you?”

“Yes please... if you would. I’m afraid that I-”

“Are you Garak’s Julian?” said just as it was said to him, that inflection a perfect mirror. “Don’t open your eyes,” Parmak says as his mouth passes over the rough of Julian’s beard, their cheeks brushing, Parmak’s lips at his ear. Julian shivers as if he has a fever. “Are you Garak’s Julian?” he repeats and the response is immediate with that second time.

“No. Never.” Except that Julian was supposed to lie and instead he spoke the absolute truth. Only Parmak laughs softly, warm, like coming home, letting him go but not quite stepping away. 

“See,” Parmak says as if that somehow proved everything that he was saying. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

 

* * *

 

 _“To my dearest friend, Elim.”_ That was the brief dedication in the book sitting on the small table in the center of the living room above Garak’s shop. The book was curious in that it didn’t seem to be professionally bound but rather threaded together carefully- though not in the manner of a commercial work. It also wasn’t typeset. It was handwritten. Oddly the dedication was written in their standard alphabet but the remainder of the work was in that spidery Cardassian script. He recognized a few words- mostly medical- which definitely didn’t make sense given the small bit of context that he could make out from the rest but little else. 

Julian quickly set the book back down when Garak returned to the room with a tray holding two glasses and bottle of blue liquid that appeared more like some magic alchemic elixir than a proper drink. In fact, it almost seemed to glow in the dim lighting.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be looking through your personal articles. I thought it might have been a medical book from the title but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. The book is meant to be a conversation piece and it seems that it’s fulfilled its purpose quite admirably.” Garak sounded amused as he continued. “What, might I ask though made you think that it was a medical text?”

“Well the title, of course, “On the treatment of Cardassian illnesses.” Julian looked up at him confused.

“Yes, I can definitely see where you would read it that way.” Garak’s head tilted a bit, examining the words from Julian’s angle as he set down the tray. Garak took a seat next to him on a large cushion, looking slightly unsteady as he did. He’d been determined to get the hand of the provincial earthy sitting habits of their people and Julian hadn’t been sure at the time if he’d been joking or not. Seeing Garak trying to get comfortable made him recall in his studies the tendency for Cardassians to have a rather prominent coccyx, extra cartilage, the remnants of that vestigial tail. He couldn’t imagine that Garak could have been terribly comfortable. 

“But I believe that you, as many other novices before have made the mistake of reading only the ah… I’m not sure how the word translates but the top reading. There is an eastern Federation script I’ve had a chance to see once before that uses characters more similar than our own in that they possess multiple readings.” 

Julian watched his mouth, watched his hands, watched every bit of him determined to commit it to memory now that he’d finally allowed himself that transgression. If he was going to die... 

“But the differences in how they read is essential- I believe your similar script is dependent upon the character proceeding it whereas ours... You see if you read this in a right to left circle as I believe you are, you come to your conclusion. But here, the “treatment” takes a different meaning as does “illnesses”. Oh, it’s a subtle difference to be sure, but if you parse the text in the reverse, you’ll find that it says “To Cure the Cardassian State.”

“Wait,” Julian reexamined the path of Garak’s finger, certainly understanding but- “You said it’s not dependent on the surrounding characters but then how on do you know which reading to use?” Garak merely smiled, pouring the thick blue liquid into two glasses.

Julian admired the ornate glasswork of the bottle, waiting for him to give a response. The bottle almost resembled a hookah in design, carefully carved, some parts seeming to twist back around on itself so that one couldn’t quite be sure where it began and ended. Somehow that clicked in him and he looked over, that revelation dawning as he also realized that Garak’s silence was all the response he was going to get.

“You can’t be serious… it’s nothing but guesswork? _All_ of it?”

“I prefer to think of it as a mystery. As well as an invaluable insight into one’s character. For once you know the manner in which an author chooses to make use of their words, you learn all sort of things about them. The author here, Kelas Parmak for example, chose to reverse “illness” and yet didn’t quite seem to make a solid commitment to the Cardassian State itself. Doubtless a reluctant holdover from the years he was imprisoned. But then again, Kelas has always been a bit different, a bit sensitive, if you will. If I had to describe him, I would say that he’s a man who’d have had a happier life were he born a human. He would vehemently disagree with that sentiment of course, in that way of his.”

“It sounds like the two of you were very close.”

“Oh no, not at all. I only knew him briefly. A day I would say and no more than that. And then he was gone.” Julian suddenly remembered something he’d heard once, from Chief O’Brien remarking on the departure of their Cardassian guests.

“You know, I’ve heard that one day in Cardassia is as long as two in the Federation.” Julian grinned at him with what he hoped was the proper amount of challenge. “Because the locals will talk the sun into setting a day late.” Julian shifted from where he sat crosslegged, trying to remember body language, to lean back. He’d had the lessons somewhere, in a time that he couldn’t quite recall. Open, listening, willing, but not passive. That was what he needed to convey now. Or was that correct for the current situation? He wasn’t sure, but Garak seemed to give an appreciative nod for his effort.

“Dull witted humans with little mind for intelligent conversation,” he replied easily. 

“Some might say it’s only the man who can’t properly engage an audience that curses it for being unworthy... like a man cursing the Prophets for not blessing him with the gift of wit.” That was one he recalled from Leeta on more than one occasion.

“Ah, whatever would we do without such thoughtful Bajoran proverbs?”

“You say that awfully dismissively.”

“No more than a man speaking of the language of animals. I’m certain a horse would have quite a bit to teach me about being a horse. But in the end, who really wants to learn the ways of a beast of burden.”

“Spoken like a man who clearly sees nothing wrong with the Occupation,” Julian said with a flush of anger.

“Now why ever would you come to that conclusion?”

“But you just-” Nonplussed, Julian almost visibly deflated. “You can’t... You cannot _possibly_ tell me-”

“That one must believe a race equal to his own to believe that they hold a right to self determination?” Julian’s mouth bobbed open shut a moment before he scratched his neck self consciously feeling just a bit foolish. He decided to examine his cup a little further.

Julian sniffed at the cold liquid in the long stemmed glass curious. It had a sweet aroma but it was subtle, faint, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Garak’s tongue dip into the glass without touching the liquid. He recalled what he’d read of Cardassian taste and smell, how they, like snakes and other lizards possessed that organ in the roof of the mouth to press the tongue to both smell and taste at once. He’d imagined, when he’d read it some reptilian creature flicking a forked tongue out of a lipless mouth. No, not at all. There was something sensual about that delicate poke of Garak’s pink tongue, tasting that taste itself by way of introduction in out, a small dart from between his gray lips once, twice, a quick motion that made him feel warm. It was a silly thought, but nerves and that innate inquisitiveness prompted Julian to do the same. He thought he saw Garak stare at him a moment just a bit but he wasn’t sure. Julian had noticed his senses sometimes seemed just a bit faster than those of his peers but then just as often it was his mind, his mishmash of memories playing a trick on him.

“A good year of _kanar_ ,” Garak remarked, seeming to tease him.

“I really wouldn’t know, what with not tasting it and all.”

“Ah right, a pity. I forget sometimes that humans are limited where the matter of taste is concerned. I would advise against sticking your finger in it as I’ve seen some humans do to taste their food. It has certain properties that doesn’t always agree with the skin.”

“I think we have a very fine sense of taste, thank you.”

“Perhaps fine when functional but I can say that since I’ve gotten here, every new face that I meet seems to be a study in aromas. Whether it’s the garlic, the turmeric, that stuff that you burn when your own bodily scents become too strong. Incest?” Julian almost choked on his own saliva at that word just about convinced Garak had confused the similar sounds for that very effect. 

“Incense!” He corrected quite flustered.

Garak tasted that air again seeming almost relieved at whatever brushed those unique taste buds. Julian couldn’t help but feel some offense at that last bit but then he recalled quite poignantly from his texts that unlike humans and other races, Cardassians didn’t perspire. Seeing Garak’s eyes closed, Julian gave a sniff to his own garments discreetly. He’d washed of course- washed and even borrowed some of Jadzia’s oils. But Julian was thinking now as he smelled the earthy myrrh, that perhaps that was the worst thing that he could’ve done. _Well, Julian, if you haven’t already made a mess of things you might as well at least enjoy the drink._  

Growing tired of tasting bland air and making an ass of himself, Julian took a small sip finding that the kanar slipped over his tongue and nearly down his throat like a living organism. It was quite unnerving, the convulsion of his of throat almost reactive and a second too late. He blinked a few times, feeling not fire but cold falling down his esophagus, down his chest until it settled in his belly still never seeming to be still. It was then that he felt the warmth begin to bloom out, a sun rising in his gut, a tingle beginning to spread down his arms and legs. His heart was racing in an instant and he nearly dropped the glass as he went to put it down.

“Garak?” Julian asked feeling just a bit panicked. “What is… ah, what is in kanar?” He thought that he already had a guess, that he foolishly hadn’t realized a foreigner would think nothing of imbibing an alcoholic drink for a festive occasion, but he just needed that confirmation. He watched as Garak paused his non drinking to look at him. It seemed he realized the issue as well, setting his own glass down with a sigh.

“You don’t drink,” he said rather than asked. Julian shook his head almost violently.

“No of course not it’s-“ _It’s what Julian? Against your beliefs? Immoral? Take a look at yourself. You’re sitting next to a man close enough to touch, looking over at him with that lust, looking at his mouth, looking at his body beneath the dark green tunic._ Julian hadn’t yet released the stem of the glass. He rolled his thumb over the delicate neck of the glass, staring hard at the blue liquid, pursing his lips tilting his head. “I’m going to die you know,” Julian said, a laugh sticking in his throat as he picked the glass back up. 

“I know.”

“You what?”

“It’s hardly a secret, dear Julian. Even the Ancients, fabled to have lived centuries eventually met their timely end. So of course... one day... you will perish.”

“You’re not listening to to me I mean I...” Julian stopped, almost sensing that pain in his head threatening to come back but as he looked at Garak, looked in his eyes he saw the words for what they really were. Garak knew. Julian didn’t know how Garak knew that he was going to die. But he could see it in those eyes, just like Dr. Crusher’s, almost down to the same blue, they knew, they understood. “I mean that it doesn’t particularly matter, does it?” He took another long drink this time ready for that cold warmth that blazed back up hotly. “I mean if I... if we’re both destined to rot into this Earth then we should enjoy it, shouldn’t we?” Garak placed his hand over Julian’s, easing that glass down.

“As refreshingly pure as I find your newfound nihilism, Julian, I might warn you that for the unseasoned, just a few sips can be quite life altering.” His voice was an odd quiet and Julian wasn’t sure what had changed suddenly.

“It seems like a waste of your drink if I’m not going to drink to a stupor so you can ravish me.” Julian felt a heat to his cheeks as he said those words, feeling bold just as he felt that pain begin to encroach on him. He wondered if he might drink it away. Hardly likely- Julian was well aware of the effects of alcohol on the body and none were particularly beneficial.

“If you need to rely on the drink to be your moral crutch, then perhaps I misjudged you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’d taken you for a man of stronger character, stronger conviction once his mind had been set to a course. A perfect representation of that vaunted Federation man.”

“And am I somehow failing to live up to your expectations?” He felt the sharp sting of disappointment, of rebuke. He was angry at himself for his behavior, for his failure, for his stupid decisions ever since he’d met Garak. He was angry with Garak as well for the same. He took another drink almost spitefully knowing that Garak was watching him.

“I expected a man. I got a child,” Garak replied primly. Julian opened his mouth to reply frozen still as a sharp pain hit him. His jaw clenched tight, teeth almost grinding. Garak seemed not to notice as he too took a drink. The words stung. They hurt like hell and he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from. Garak wasn’t looking at him and Julian grabbed his arm, yanking harder than he’d intended.

What happened next stunned them both. Garak moved quickly, grabbing his wrist twisting, Julian having no idea where that attack instinct came from. But just as alarming was his own unconscious response to that defense, a series of patterns playing through his head frantically, that pain blaring until he moved. _Sacrifice wrist, glass, throat, kill._ The pain stopped the instant he acted, his hand already seizing the broken stem, ignoring what was sure to be a terrible injury. Except he stopped, staring at his hand, dropping it back to the ground, eyes wide with fear. Garak released his wrist, and Julian thought he saw a flash of silver but just as quickly it was gone. And there was Garak, that mask fallen away to something far darker, far more dangerous, speaking to him with words that he couldn’t understand. 

Julian couldn’t understand anything in that moment. He couldn’t hear, he could barely see, the room unfocusing to nothing but black, to pinpricks of light swirling until he had to shut his eyes against it. And then Garak was at his side, lowering him to the ground on the pillow, face a picture of grim concern that Julian didn’t understand. He thought that he felt himself being moved, hands clutching the sides of his head as the pain was accompanied by images flashing fast in a series of still shudders. Pain, blood, hate, fight, kill, all converged to that man’s face again, the one his mind knew as Sloan. Only this time that man was shaking his father’s hand, looking at him with a smile before he was taken away.

And then the pain finally reached the blackout threshold, pulling him into a world of darkness and dreams.


	5. Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian arranges to meet Parmak at night, but Garak might have something to say about that. And in the past, Julian and Garak grow closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting dirtier and more involved as well but I'm digging the slow burn to the real G/B set in the best. I'm a little unsure of some of the angsty stuff, some of the scenes, but there are things that I like as well. Parmak is fun to write, even if my headcanons are a bit odd. Thank you everyone for reading and your support! C&C is also always welcome.

“Well, you certainly have a type.” Jadzia makes that cheerful statement as she watches Julian re-enter the infirmary tent. He just finished speaking with Parmak, arranging for to meet that night, his entire body a fast bundle of nerves. He pushes that aside, Jadzia’s comment drawing attention to the need for discretion. Next to her Quark stands fussing, almost strangely protective as he adjust her pillow and barks at one of the nurses that he doesn’t know what sort of establishment they’re running around here but the lady ought to have the ice in her water refreshed. Julian had to blink a few time not quite willing to believe it. 

He’d let Quark know if he ever wanted to change careers he had quite a promising one as an aide. Quark shot him a look of disgust explaining in no uncertain terms would he ever lower himself to such a _charitable_ position. And yet he stayed, a Ferengi messenger running in and out of the infirmary tent his go between, keeping an eye on his set up. Julian nearly trips over him on the way out, supposing that he’s going to give Rom yet another set of explicit instructions for keeping the drink watered down for those too inebriated to care.

Julian sits down, examining her shoulder trying to keep his mind focused on his work.

“Is that so?” He asks the question somewhat uneasily not knowing who could possibly be listening. He doesn’t see anyone in the immediate vicinity then realizes he’s two days from murdering a man and he’s still worried that people will know… will resurface that gossip of his… proclivities. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cardassians are good people,” Quark interrupts still hovering like a small gnat. “They always pay their bills on time.” _“I always settle my debts, my dear.”_ Julian nearly falters, a shiver as the words prompt that memory and he clears his throat. _Stop. Don’t think about him. It’s not him that you’re seeing tonight. And be thankful for it._ He is- terribly desperately so. The swirl of emotion that even Garak’s name is causing in him right now is-

“Are you okay Julian?” Jadzia looks concerned even as she lightly kicks Quark’s foot. 

Julian’s head snaps to attention after a moment’s hesitation tamping down that unpleasant roiling that started right about when Parmak left and he started thinking about his encounter with Garak.

“What? I’m sorry I ah... I’m just... got a lot to think about. But as for you, young lady,” he begins with mock sternness.

“Yes, what about the young lady?” Quark asks anxiously wringing his hands.

“You know I’m going to be fine, Quark. That is if Julian would be a dear and give me clearance for tomorrow’s fight.”

“Not a chance. Martok may be in worse shape but he did a lot of damage to this shoulder.” Julian is thankful for the convenient change of subject.

“Damage, what damage? You know the Trill are a renowned race of warriors.” Quark claps Jadzia on that shoulder to illustrate that point and Julian watches with a wince as she swoons and croaks out something in what he presumes is Ferengi. He’s sure it’s a curse.

“Thank you for the perfectly apt demonstration, Quark.”

“It’s just a little sore, isn’t that right. I’ll have Rom get some ice since these Federation doctors are so stingy with it”

“You know we have to ration the ice.” It’s a precious commodity out in the desert and there are few places to keep frozen water that are zealously guarded.

“Doctor,” Quark pleads in a hush, drawing him aside. “I understand you’re not a gambling man and you don’t understand all the important statistics, but you don’t know the disaster that it would be if Chakotay comes into the second round against that Vulcan monster.”

“And you’d send Jadzia against him injured?!” Julian doesn’t even try to hide his disgust as a few of the nurses and patients further down turn to look and Quarks practically jumps, shushing him.

“Julian…” Jadzia is still pale but motions him close. He prays she doesn’t vomit on his shoes- he was planning on wearing these tonight. 

The three of them huddle together almost conspiratorially. She looks to Quark. “Tell him, Quark.” He immediately jerks up indignantly.

“What? Are you mad?! This is insider information.”

“I’d say your doctor has a damn good reason to know your “insider information” if you think you’ve got any chance to convince me to do something as ludicrous as clear Jadzia to fight.” Julian doesn’t have the patience to deal with this right now. He’s starting to feel like he might vomit himself and he’d like to lay down for an hour if it settles down enough. Quark hems and haws a bit more but finally hisses out quickly, in agitation,

“The crowd didn’t see the injury. Oh sure, they saw a little jump, but she held it in until she was back here. They don’t know… and after that fight, they’re expecting her to win. Do you understand?” Right. Because she isn’t going to win. She’s going to lose possibly horribly and with it, Quark will make a fortune. Well Julian will say one thing for Ferengi and that’s their blissfully uncomplicated ethics.

“Except she’s not,” Julian finishes flatly practically seeing the latinum dancing in both their eyes. He sighs heavily. He looks to Jadzia, eyes giving a plea for reason. “Tell me you’re not seriously going along with this.”

“I know what I’m doing, Julian. I know how to fight _not_ to get hurt. It’s called sparring.” He shakes his head. This has gone on long enough. If there’s one thing that at least he still has control over.

“It’s called no,” Julian says already feeling his brain colliding in mind, orders for the nurses, his message to his Majesty’s about Jadzia’s condition, Parmak, Garak, it’s almost too much as he leaves amidst a flurry of protests. It’s a fight. It’s money. It’s pride, honor Jadzia might even say but in the end it’s a bunch of posturing nonsense when there are far greater stakes. _Greater stakes and you’re romancing a man that you should be staying far away from._ But not, that’s exactly what he needs to do. There’s a thought that comes to him then, he’s not sure where from, some odd dark instinct that tells him that Kelas Parmak is surely Garak’s weakness as sure as he is of his own breath. That makes him shiver cold, as he once more counts down his time. He can do this. No matter what it costs him.

 

* * *

 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you leave?” Garak’s voice passes by in the chill night air. Parmak stops, choosing not to turn towards the source of the voice instead, kneeling down pretending to fuss with the strap of his sandals.

“I know how observant you are, Elim.”

“Which is why you drugged me before sneaking out.” Parmak continues to fuss, a frown on his face.

“I told you I was giving you something that would help you sleep.”

“Ah, of course, the Kelas deception. The agreement to one’s own ruin with your complete deniability.”

“You have a name for it?” Parmak sounds amused. Garak sighs.

“You’ve been playing with that strap too long and not particularly convincingly. You might as well stand up, Kelas, I don’t think you could fool a child with that performance.” Parmak stands up expecting Garak to reveal himself dramatically from behind one of the empty supply tents. Instead he’s pulled back behind it seeing Garak standing there in a heavy cloak, hood pulled up over his head. There’s a smile that cracks Parmak’s face.

“You look positively villainous,” he remarks to that shadowed countenance. “And you say that _I_ look suspect. I’m surprised one of the ladies from the Science Academy didn’t call for the guards when she saw you skulking around like that.”

Parmak reaches up to pull back the hood, finding his hand slapped away.

“I don’t like it when I can’t see your face properly.” Parmak’s tone doesn’t have any hint of that earlier teasing.

“Does that still scare you, my dear Kelas?” Garak’s voice drops almost dramatically lower, darker. There was a time when those eyes, when that tone would have- _had_ broken him. But it’s been decades since Kelas Parmak has been able to be afraid of anything.

“You’re behaving childishly,” he answers with a purse of his lips reaching again determined.

“I’m cold.” Garak catches his wrist. He seems to want to say more and Parmak can hear it unspoken. It’s cold. Any Cardassian would be cold. _But not you, Kelas. Is that what you were going to say, Elim? But you didn’t. Because you feel guilty even though you’d never say it. You don’t like to make mention of that. It’s in the past. As the Ancients would say, nothing happened. There’s nothing but the present. None of that exists. I exist. You exist. Guilt doesn’t, regret doesn’t. Those are just the concepts of the material world for material physical actions._ Parmak looks at him, aware on some level that he’s staring. But he continues to stare, He’s always had that unfortunate habit of fixating hard on a point while his mind wanders.

“You know it’s that expression that has half your staff thinking that your interests lie beyond the professional.” Parmak absently moves his attention to Garak’s hand instead.

“Does that bother you? I’d thought that given our relationship it wasn’t of any consequence. Mmm… I think I might have said that too flippantly. Of course that wasn’t my intent.” Parmak slowly pulls his hand back, steadily bringing Garak’s arm with it as if he might jerk it back any moment. “You know you’re my dearest friend, Elim.” He looks at him, at his eyes piercing even under the shadows of that cloak, raising that hand, letting Garak’s wrist brush his face.

“As you are mine, Kelas.” Garak steps closer, letting go of him, dropping a hand to his bare shoulder. “I’d rather you pursued some alliance with one of your staff. Nakar is a bit dull for my tastes but he’s well connected and from what I gather open to your particular philosophies.”

“You don’t think I found enough drudgery when I was away? I’m afraid my own sabbatical didn’t come with a fascinating doctor. No, I should correct that. Doctor Medek was quite amiable. I think you’d appreciate his appetite for subtle mental torture and manipulations. Actually, I meant to partner with him after my release to see if we might not be able to collaborate on a joint study of the long term effects of Haze on sleep deprivation.” Parmak steps into him, standing just a slight bit taller even with his stoop, tilting his head submissively. “But you killed him,” he said absently as if speaking about the weather.

“Had him killed, my dear,” Garak corrects with a short human kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Those of us in power don’t dirty our hands in that fashion any longer. It’s considered gauche.”

“Is that why you were gone, Elim? I had thought about it while I was watching over your Julian-”

“ _My_ Julian?”

“He isn’t _our_ Julian yet. Unless you want to let me go.”

“He’s never going to be “our Julian”, Kelas.”

“I thought about it while I was sitting there. _Baking_ I might add in that hot air while you were seeing to your business. Sorry, that sounded petulant. I know it’s instinctual to only consider temperature with reference to one’s own bodily acclimation. No, you wouldn’t have been warm. But do you know what I realized then?” He put a finger to Garak’s mouth. “That’s a rhetorical question. Please don’t answer it.”

“Kelas-” Garak’s voice carries a warning in it as he shrugs that gesture off. _Yes, it’s unwise to speak here. You’re more likely to get riddles but he’s off balance. It’s dangerous to speak of his work, Kelas, but you need to confirm your suspicions. How does that stubborn man expect you to protect him otherwise? Well of course he doesn’t expect that. He expects to protect you but he’s doing exactly what he constantly warns you about. He’s letting sentiment cloud him._

“Anyone who listens now will be killed, won’t they, Elim? I expect that’s warning enough and if it’s not, then wouldn’t you rightly say they’ve earned that death?” Parmak puts arms around Garak’s waist, drawing them up to his back. His voice is soft to Garak’s ear. “I understand that’s the way of things, Elim. But I’d like to tell you what I know and I expect you to answer just as you would but that’s fine. Those ten years… you weren’t with him. Not a one.” Parmak knew that with unflinching conviction. He knew the look of a man who hadn’t seen his lover in a decade. He once wore that same face. “And yet you were gone. Banished. Exiled. Perhaps I spoke that too succinctly but I wanted to emphasize that point. You failed the mission,” he says with a sigh. “My poor Elim, you weren’t there to kill Picard at all.” He rests his chin on Garak’s shoulder and says nothing further for a while.

“The things that you understand are frightening only in their earnest incorrectness.”

“That’s all you needed to say.” Parmaks hands absently knead Garak’s back. “This is exactly why I need to go. I can hear you saying in fact this is why I _shouldn’t_ go but you’re wrong.”

“As always you make bold statements with the simplicity of a child.”

“Then I’ll continue the pattern.”

“You’re very warm, Kelas,” Garak says trying a slightly different tact. Parmak shivers as Garak’s fingers brush the ridges of his neck, mouth following slowly, idly, as if they have nothing but time. “I might request that you not leave me alone tonight.”

“You left me alone, Elim. ” He says that so matter of factly that he feels the tension in Garak’s body in response. “I don’t say that to induce any particular feeling but I can tell it’s there nonetheless.”

“You can tell that this miserable cold is beginning to take a predictable effect and nothing more.”

“He’s not going to hurt me.”

“That’s because you’ve become a death seeking fool who believes that nothing can hurt you.”

“Nothing _can_ hurt me. No one wants to hurt me or harm me in any way. So they won’t. You might know that if you ever took the time to parse any of those books I’d left for you.”

“I read them. Every one of them. It’s a wonder you ever made it out of that place alive.”

Parmak laughs softly, turning his face to rub Garak’s cheek setting his spectacles slightly askew.

“That’s exactly how I made it out of that place alive. You should really let go of me though. If, as you’ve hinted at in the past, there are those looking to discern some sort of romantic entanglement between the two of us then this is likely only fueling that ludicrous notion.” He disengages just like that, taking Garak’s hands in his.

“Then who is going to look after my Kelas?” Parmak laughs at that, not bitterly, but genuinely amused thinking that Garak must be making a joke. But then again, he’s always been a poor judge of humor.

“I’m not your Kelas, Elim. You’ve been correct in your insistence these years of the impossibility of that.” He squeezes Garak’s hands kissing them. “Be well. You really should allow that tea to aid your sleep. You’ve been looking tired lately. Rest will do your mind well. I say that as your doctor and your friend. You’ll never survive, yourself, if you don’t look out properly.”

“You don’t find a certain irony in that statement?”

“Irony is for those with dull wits and an inflated sense of their own powers of observation.” Parmak yawns- or rather he keeps his mouth closed, a brief interlude while his jaw locks and that sound roars in his ears. He learned once never to allow his mouth to open without his conscious action. He learned that from Dr. Medek as a matter of fact when he was still imprisoned. “That may have been unkind of me but it’s late and I forget myself. A walk will surely wake my manners back up.” He lets go of Garaks hands.

“There’s no talking you out of this, is there?” Parmak hears that question and frowns.

“I would say that’s the tone of a man who is about to resort to violence to achieve his aims, but that couldn’t possibly be right.” Parmak turns his back deliberately, the long braid a defiant whipping tail. “I recall a man saying such a thing would be considered gauche.”

“Do you really believe I wouldn’t strike you because I’d find it tacky, Kelas?”

“I _know_ you won’t Elim,” Parmak answers simply. Garak shakes his head with a small rueful smile that Parmak doesn’t see but still envisions when he speaks.

“As always, my dear, you know me far too well. You really have no idea how unfortunate a thing that it.” Those words spoken ominously still Parmak’s movement and he stops. Of course. Garak would never leave things at that.

“I already know, my friend,” Parmak says, a realization, a bitter smile on his face as he feels Garak’s presence leave just as a rattle comes loud, louder around the corner, 

“Doctor Parmak!” He sees one of his subordinates, a young woman named Lora, accompanied by an older guard who really shouldn’t be as winded as he is. She’s visibly relieved at the sight of him. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening walk but there’s an emergency. We don’t know why, but several of the guards have taken sick and the infirmary is overrun right now between them and the usual. We’ve got our hands full. They keep coming in stomach pains, nausea, vomiting, some blood, some seizing. We’d thought food poisoning at first but the onset was so sudden and severe and the similarities were... .” 

Parmak looks at her as she continues in a rush, not having Garak’s flair for the dramatic to feign ignorance or surprise. Instead he just sighs softly, already starting to walk. He doesn’t damn Garak as he does, knowing the source, knowing the cure, knowing that a man who would bring down an empire out of vengeance for a man who could never be his lover would think nothing of setting such a diversion. _Ah, my poor Elim, you’ve already been damned I’m afraid._

 

* * *

 

Julian shifts nervously from one foot to another as he watches the moon, the clouds moving slowly to cover it. The rocks cast their large shadow and there’s definitely a chill as the air blows past him. It’s almost too cold for a human, he couldn’t imagine what the night would feel like for a Cardassian. But then again, it was Parmak who suggested meeting here. He still wonders if he’s not being set up, if this isn’t a game that Garak’s playing with him. He’s always been fond of deception, of the grand drama of the game playing out. Back then, Julian thought he was merely referring to the theater. But when he thinks of that earnest of Parmak’s eyes, the way that he held Julian’s hand between his, it was enough to get Julian to believe any damn stupid thing he was told. _But hasn’t the Chief always said there’s no such thing as an honorable Cardie? Maybe he’s just a better liar than the rest._ Julian sits down maudlin, that sense of anticipation bleeding out to the cool rock beneath him as he draws his knees up to his chest and gives Parmak more time to arrive before he returns back to the encampment a fool. He scratches his face, the smooth skin still unnerving him, reminding him far more of that past with Garak.

_But that’s how Garak remembers you best, Julian. And no matter how exciting, you’re here for Garak not for his… his whatever._ Julian had stopped short of cutting his hair. He preferred the slightly unruly mop if for no other reason than to run his fingers through when anxious. He felt anxious quite a bit these last few days since meeting with his father. _Can’t imagine why, Julian. Only agreed to kill the man you once swore to give your life for. You’ve only got a lay with a killer, a murderer, a liar, an oath breaker. You’ve only got to smile for the man who took everything from you and let him fuck you before you slit his throat._  

Julian shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head, buries his face on his knees. Because the worst thing of all is knowing that his body is already longing, _aching_ for Garak again. Even with everything that’s happened he can’t help but drive his forehead into his knees as if that could somehow force every bit of Garak from his brain. He sits up, breathing out, at least knowing that for tonight there will be one blessed respite of a different man, a different body joining his, perhaps

“If you’re waiting for Kelas, my dear, I’m sad to report that he’s been detained indefinitely and asked if I might keep you company in his stead.” Julian practically jumps not having heard a single sound as Garak seems to materialize out of nowhere. Likely from behind an adjacent rock when Julian wasn’t looking, the shadow casting darkened moonlight in front of him before he looks up and sees a cloaked mask of death peering down at him.

“Garak!” Julian stands quickly, brushing his clothes off as he faces him once more, this time no crowds, no sun, no light between them. _No. No, it can’t be, it_ _can’t_ _be you here I’m not ready. I need more time. I’m not pulled together, don’t you understand that?!_

“You still startle so easily, my dear, I worry for you. I can only imagine your response if I was some brigand bound and determined to set upon your riches.” Garak assists him, Julian feeling the adrenaline rushing, as those hands brush down his body. He can’t see much of Garak as heavily bundled as he is. Of course, Garak loathes it when it’s cold.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” Julian says still trying to collect himself. He doesn’t meet Garak’s eyes, instead looking off to the side. He wants to cry because his damn hands won’t be still.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No!” Too quick, too violent a turn of his head. It’s still too hard to look at him standing so closely. Julian isn’t sure what to do with his hands absently clasping them behind, nervously twining fingers and thumbs together. “S-surely… you can understand… what it’s like to see a dead man standing before you.” Julian takes a deep breath, willing himself to look, to face him and not see that darkened countenance holding life bleeding out of his hands. And as always in that image he could see the blood irrationally on his own hands, everywhere, covering him, Garak-

“What do I know of seeing a dead man walk to you arms outstretched like some nightmare human fantasy come to life? That may very well be one for the philosophers as they say. I can only imagine such a thing.” 

“Maybe you can at that, Garak,” Julian says tersely, feeling that anger starting to build as Garak stands there as if a thousand lives and lies don’t stand between them. As if it should really be that simple. _But it is! That’s what you’re supposed to be doing!_

“Come now, Julian, Surely you cannot have so easily forgotten the sweet nothings that you intended to whisper to me should we ever meet again.” Julian stops short, almost feeling as if Garak is guiding him through his own performance. No. That’s _not_ possible. Garak has always been so good at throwing him off balance. _Quiet. Be quiet, for once stop talking at me while I clear my head. Stop looking at me just stop_ _being_ _._ Julian wants to grab him and shake him and demand answers. He wants to kill him just as badly as he wants to kiss him. _What are you doing here? Why are you here? This isn’t your damn game, this is my mission, this is my life and you can’t just-_

“Then why don’t you tell me the sweet nothings I should be saying to a dead man, Garak? Why don’t you tell me what _you_ whisper to Kelas every night before you send him out to seduce me.” He isn’t even sure where that comes from but he can feel that act slipping away like some sneaky Cardassian’s shedding scales. _Garak’s scales will begin shedding soon. He’ll need a new stone and shuttup up Julian what the hell is wrong with you?!_

There’s an odd twitch at that, something that flicks across Garak’s face that Julian can’t read. He can’t think straight either. 

“Kelas is dead,” Garak replies with forced gregariousness. “A fact you might recall were you to think back.”

“No, you _told_ me that he’s dead.”

“Is there a difference?” Julian just looks at him in answer. He opens his mouth and shuts it again with a soft bitter laugh. 

“I suppose to you, there isn’t.” Julian laughs again. He swallows it down fast, afraid that it might turn to something else, that emotion burbling up dangerously. _“There’s no place for emotion, Bashir. It’s time.” “Please don’t make me...” “Do you want to live?”_ Julian is sure that he’s going mad hearing those voices, those dreams masquerading as memories. He hadn’t been tormented by them in so long but last night, this night, it seems to be all that his mind can hold at times. _Stop it, Julian, just_ _stop_ _._

“You’re angry with me,” Garak observes. 

“You’re damn right I’m angry!” Julian doesn’t even try to hold it back. He doesn’t try to cache it in nicer terms, he doesn’t try to hold that illusion up as he grabs Garak’s robe. “Do you have any idea... Do you know what you’ve... You’ve... You ruined me! You ruined everything! You ruined my life! You took _everything_ from me!”

“And yet here you stand alive, unharmed, when by all rights you should be dead.” Garak stares almost angrily at those hands, not making any move to dislodge them.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” 

“Simply that you told me when we met that you were dying, not long for this world, making preparations for your body to be received by the supposedly loving arms of whatever God you profess you believe in. And so I repeat, my dear, here you stand alive, unharmed.”

“You’re saying _I’m_ the liar now?! Me?!”

“I’m not certain what else you’d have me say, Julian. Only you know how this little dance of ours is supposed to play out just as I suspect that you knew back then.”

“Sorry! Sorry! I’d have you say “Sorry” you miserable _heartless_... You! How... How _how_ bloody hard is it to just say it?!” Julian steps back hitting that rock, hardly feeling that pain with the side of his fist, left hand joining the right. “Even if you don’t mean it... even if you don’t fucking _mean_ it!” Julian hits again, fists hitting hard, his eyes unfocusing on that dark ground, a sob, a scream, a guttural vociferation that seems to come from another entirely just _screams_ as Julian lets it out, eyes shut tightly, not able to look at Garak watching so damn apathetically as he falls apart. “A lie, a bloody lie, that shite that falls from your mouth like breathing you couldn’t make that one last lie?!”

Julian sinks to his knees with that final bitter plea, breaking apart as he hits that ground on his knees while Garak still watches, supposing Parmak may have been the better choice after all. Kelas Parmak really is a far better man than he, but it isn’t a better man that’s needed now. Tain doesn’t call Garak when he needs a better man. A better man would be on his knees already from the wretched sight of the one he ruined weeping like a child. A kindness... a simple empathetic kindness of a better man. That’s where Parmak would be. That’s where Parmak would tell him he should be right now. But that’s because Parmak, unlike any other would understand just by looking at the flex of his hand and the slow draws of Garak’s breath that he wants more than anything to do just that. Which is exactly why he cannot. He has a mission, after all.

“I’ve noticed it’s a failing of most to conflate dignified men with decent ones.” Garak’s voice is softer than it ought to be. He lets that expression fall when Julian’s eyes no longer see him- when his head is bowed. Only then does he catch his own hand from reaching out, does he feel that frown tug his mouth hard. “People like their monsters neat and pat. People expect their monsters to look the part. People never want to accept that they’re no...” Garak puts a hand over his mouth, squeezing his own jaw between his fingers as if to silence himself from speaking any further. And when Julian looks up again, Garak is careful to hide any bit of that weakness as he moves that hand to adjust his cloak. 

He can see the tears on Julian’s face, the anguished clear eye bleeding of a man in torment. _You thought I was dead. You mourned me. You wept for me. You gave as you said everything for me. And here I stand before you a cruel shade come to remind you of everything you’ve lost._ Garak calmly clasps his hands behind his back thinking he’ll break his own fingers if he has to. _You’ll never understand all that I’ve done to save you, Julian. But you should have died... You would have if I hadn’t... Ah, but these are the sorts of deals a dying man makes with the devil._ Garak wonders if, those decades ago when Parmak took his hands in that interrogation room and told him that he could see him... what if he hadn’t...

“You’re wrong Julian, when you say it’s that simple,” Garak says softly, feeling that strange self destructive elation that’s become the cornerstone of his life. He asks himself if it would have been so difficult to go along with Julian’s little farce, if that really would’ve been such a small thing to earn Tain’s praise. But Garak sees no reason to break the cycle of a lifetime of disappointment. “That’s a lie of course, nothing is ever simple. But you know of demons and our lies.” 

He waits for those emotions to blur rainbow across Julian’s face when they settle on some odd sparking hope of revelation. Garak wonders what it’s like to be able to cry like that as he crouches down, taking Julian’s face in one hand remembering that if he learned nothing else from Tain it was how to turn kindness quickly to cruelty. Julian sits back, kneeling besides him as they’d done so many times before. He doesn’t look at Garak but straight ahead another hard twist of his mouth reasserting itself. Steeling for the drop. But Garak doesn’t drop feathers. He drops dreams to be buried in stardust. Garak’s hand brushes the side of Julian’s face, Julian so eager, so unconscious in that lean. Garak allows himself to savor that touch.

“I would apologize to you, my dear for as you say, lies to me are nothing. But I’ve already told you one grand lie for a lifetime so perhaps I feel that I should leave it at that.”

“What’s that, Garak?” Julian asks with a hoarse voice. Garak wants to kiss his throat and “make it better” as Julian would say. He sounds so hopeful. He sounds so miserable. He wants to believe so badly. Garak wants to let him. And Garak thinks that at if Kelas Parmak won’t ever have the sense in his head to hate him then at least Julian will. 

“When I told you that I loved you,” he says quietly.

And that’s when Julian stabs him.

 

* * *

 

Julian awoke to the sound of charcoal lightly scratching over a page. At least that’s what he saw when the sunlight through the window finally forced enough heat and light to his face to cause him to stir. He blinked away sleep, along with the darkness of the dream that he thought would never end. It was much the same as it had ever been- that dark room, that man, Sloan. He’d felt his body thrash around as there was some bile poured down his throat that made every bit of his body feel as if it were on fire. He was never able to scream in the dream. He could never see more than that man’s face. And then came the blood, everything painted red as he found himself in another room, smaller, more confined, damp, the rats circling him and another child. He could still feel that fever burning through him, that child screaming his name as he held hands to his… her? Throat and- 

And Julian shook that off violently, breathing in slow, some instinct telling him not to show any signs of weakness or distress as he sat up. _It’s only a dream, Julian. It’s only ever a dream. Remember, you have several recollection, for that time. There were a lot of things you were told, that was… ten. You were ten and you were still in school. You had two friends named…_  

Julian never could quite recall the names, but he knew the faces, he was sure of it. And Sloan was nothing, not a monster, just a man… a man who… he… escaped from? Julian almost felt that head pain return as he tried to remember and he realized that scratching sound had stopped. He pulled himself together calmly, taking in the scene, Garak kneeling on the floor some few feet from him with a large paper stretched over a board, sketching… him? Julian looked as him curiously as he rolled over and stretched, on his knees, head bowed, arms as far as they could reach above his head. It was then he realized that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes as last night. He looked down at the long, white shift, thankful that the loose fabric fell past his knees. He was somewhat dismayed to find nothing underneath as he sat up and back. He heard Garak sigh.

“I’d hoped you might have stayed asleep a few minutes longer. I wasn’t quite finished but I suppose I’ve enough of a start to extrapolate the rest.” He absently wiped his smudged hands on the dark brown pants he was wearing.

“Is there a reason that I’m wearing this?” Julian asked, seeing that it was too big on the shoulders, already slipping off the left as if he were a child in a man’s clothes.

“I’m afraid that your episode last night became somewhat severe, though judging by your confusion and your behavior it seems you don’t recall much. It won’t take me more than a few days to mend your clothes. You have my deepest apologies, Julian, I had no idea that you would react so poorly to the drink.”

“No, it wasn’t that, I-“ Julian immediately quieted himself. _Shut up, you idiot, are you crazy? Let him think it was some reaction to whatever was in that, don’t let him know that you’re completely crazy as well as dying._ Julian swallowed with a wan smile. “But ah… you’re probably right, I really should have warned you that my ah.. aversion to alcohol is for physiological reasons, not merely religious.”

Julian watched almost expectantly, praying that Garak would believe that flimsy excuse.

“Is this yours?” He tugged the fabric of the long shirt, shaking it for emphasis. Garak’s attention was neatly diverted and he nodded, already beginning to clean up his supplies. Julian took a moment to look around the room deciding it had to be a secondary rather than Garak’s bedroom proper. He was laying on a palette, firm but surprisingly soft with several mismatched blankets surrounding him almost like a nest. 

He would have expected to see tailoring supplies and fabrics but instead found various canvases, a few stacks of books and a small low table for eating. Garak was puttering around and when his back was turned, Julian took a moment to inhale deeply the scent of the shift, finding that it did smell just a bit like Garak. He also wasn’t sure whether the scent of the oils from the previous night had worn off or if he’d become acclimated to the scent. He hoped the former if Garak’s sense of smell was as sensitive as it seemed to be.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you,” Julian said as Garak practically shoved a cinnamon flavored chew stick at him. _Oh come on, my breath cannot possibly be_ _that_ _terrible._ Julian snuck a quick sniff into his hand wrinkling his nose. _Point taken then._

“Think nothing of it, Julian, though I do hope the palace guards don’t think that I’ve spirited you away somewhere.” Julian chewed not particularly thinking when he stupidly blurted out,

“It won’t be a problem. I let Eddington know not to worry if I wasn’t back because I-.” He stopped, a gasp inhaling strong cinnamon saliva down his throat and he let himself cough out an embarrassing slobbering mess over the shift, face hot and embarrassed.

“I’m shocked, Julian,” Garak exclaimed in mock surprise as he handed him a glass of water. “And here I’d merely thought to have a pleasant evening of conversation. I’d no idea that such salacious thoughts were running through that devious human mind of yours.” Julian failed for a moment, as if in that violent fit of coughing he might give him a good smack on the shoulder.

“Ha,” was all Julian responded when he finally was able to breathe. It was still half wheezed but it did clear the spots up from his vision.

Garak was already carefully indexing supplies back, extremely fastidious and Julian took a moment to slide over to the sketch. He pulled that shirt up back over his shoulder.

“That’s er... quite exceptional you know but I don’t really think that I look like that.” It was about seventy centimeters by his measure and still somewhat rough, but he could see himself sleeping amidst that pile, sunlight hitting his face. His leg was bent, knee peeking out from the cover bare, and there was some small hint of sensuality that almost embarrassed him as he looked. “It’s beautiful… it really is.”

“It’s you, Julian. But that’s the nature of the subject and the artist. It’s up to the artist to draw out those hidden details, to bring that essence to life, or perhaps as Kelas would say to immortalize the soul on the page- he was always particular about having his image captured. But Kelas always was overly mystical with those sorts of things.” 

Garak shook his head as he knelt down beside him looking at the picture at the same time. “That philosophy isn’t exactly encouraged in the Empire and I’m afraid it’s what led to his… unfortunate circumstances. We like to think of ourselves as rather staunch pragmatists. Religion is always the bane of any decent civilization as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“You realize that completely flies in the face of Federation doctrine, don’t you? All religions are welcome, respected, appreciated… And didn’t you tell me before you only knew this man for a day?”

“An hour at most I’m sure,” Garak added and Julian couldn’t help the suspicious look.

“It’s none of my business if you’ve another lover but I don’t fancy him busting in here pointing a sword at my throat.” Garak stared at him- and really, there was no other word for it- and then immediately began laughing. Julian wasn’t certain if he was still being toyed with as he motioned to the door animated.

“Right, laugh, for all I know he’s in the next room sleeping, or in the kitchen sharpening a cleaver to take to both me and you for your infidelity!” Julian was encouraged by Garak’s laughing, not having seen such a display in the all the time he’d known him. “He’s probably cursing the years he’s wasted on you as we speak.” Garak had smiled, had grinned, had made all sorts of expressions really, but Julian was beginning to think that the mild amused grin was all he was capable of until now.

“Oh picture, Kelas Parmak with a sword, with a meat clever, my Julian you _do_ have the most exceptional imagination!” The laughter didn’t endure, never really rising beyond a long extended series of soft chuckles but to Julian it was the most damn brilliant thing to see on Garak’s face. He was hardly breathless, but Julian, still kneeling next to him in front of that page looked over almost nervously, thinking that he wanted to- Irrationally, his heart was starting to beat faster with some anticipated action and he wasn’t sure why. 

No, he did. _My Julian..._ And he knew exactly why when he stopped Garak’s hand from reaching for the sketch- likely to put it up- his fingers carefully crawling over the top of Garak’s hand until they both held still. He looked at their two hands, some slender wasp entrapping a dark butterfly. No, Garak was no butterfly as he turned to Julian steadily.

“Thank you for… for drawing me like that,” Julian said before Garak could divert him to another subject. “I… I sometimes forget that I ah…” Julian looked at Garak’s mouth long, lingering.

“I like to sketch people that I find fascinating- people that I have an opportunity to meet. Cardassian memory is perfect, flawless, and yet if I were to bring your image to mind there would be something lacking that the portrait doesn’t. I wanted to capture that.”

“Is that… is that really how I look to you?” Garak almost hesitated at the question, as if he were somehow exposing himself, looking at the darkened damp of the shift where Julian had coughed out that cinnamon spit.

“You know that there may be a stain if I don’t tend to that right away.” Julian thought he heard a small subtle waver of Garak’s usually even voice. He was pretty sure his heart beat three times just then in a count of one.

“I can pay you for it.” Julian said, voice dropping to a whisper. His body moved. He didn’t do it, it just moved, of its own volition, he would swear- not that he would ever make such a flippant oath. Julian could feel his hand shake over Garak’s, fingers climbing up his forearm, the smooth gray skin bare with those rolled up sleeves. He felt the faint scales, soft like a snake but more subtle than that and his fingers brushed the inside of his elbow, Garak couldn’t hide a hitch in his breath.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking for payment,” he said voice less steady and Julian realized at once just how _close_ Garak’s face was to his.

“I really don’t… I’ve never done this before… I…”

“Far be it for a Cardassian to protest an excess of dialogue… And should you ever find yourself interrogated by that nefarious Obsidian Order, I should hope you take this to your grave my dear but…” Garak’s other hand had moved, Julian was brilliantly, suddenly aware when he felt those fingers on the back of his neck bringing their lips to nearly touch, a small tilt of Garak’s head tilting his world off its axis. “I’m going to need you to stop talking now.”

That hand pushed a small nudge and Julian found that same cinnamon scent wafting back at him. _Did that mean that he was expecting to-_ That thought cut off. Garak kissed him softly, lightly at first, as if he wasn't quite certain himself of what he was doing. Julian tensed. Garak’s hand dropped to let him pull back. He did just a bit but then he tilted his head at a better angle and before Garak could regroup, could apologize, Julian’s mouth was to his again, another soft press. It was just enough not to be considered chaste. 

Julian was so nervous his eyes fluttered flicking between open and shut and he squeezed Garak’s bicep with trembling fingers. His body turned more into Garak’s and he kissed him more in earnest another press pucker of lips that lingered, his tongue absently licking his dry lips and he felt Garak’s flick tease in response. He gasped, breath hitching, not expecting that and he teased back, tasting not just cinnamon but some strong cardamom coffee that he never would’ve imagined Garak enjoying. It was likely sweet, and when Garak’s tongue lapped his mouth, he tasted that faint sugar hint as well.

_I knew that. I remembered that about you._ That thought, that fact that he remembered that pleased him. Julian felt a flying sense of elation kick in, that thought that he was doing this alive, now, not cursed, not ripped into some macabre fantasy the way his father, the way the clerics would often swear at him. The sun’s angle only streamed in more brilliantly, the room awash with warm light and Julian felt the shift slip from his shoulder with a tickle. He barely paid it any mind. 

Julian kissed Garak open mouthed, never imagining such a tawdry act would bring such a rush of heat, his legs shaking as he leaned in, hand scrabbling up to Garak’s shoulder. Julian felt that tongue lick the corner of his mouth, painting fire across his skin and when Garak’s mouth followed with a slow soft trail Julian’s head tilted, eyes beaming brightly towards that open window as his chest heaved. They were on the second floor, the curtains gently swaying, but that breeze didn’t reach him, feverish fire flicking with that hot tongue up the column of his neck pulling a whimper from as deep down as his toes.

They curled, bare feet rubbing each other as his hips rocked into nothing, that motion, that shift of the soft cloth a breeze itself over his cock making him aware of just how painfully, immediately aroused he was. Julian swallowed, breathing out Garak’s name as his fingers clutch climbed higher like a spider jumping over fallen leaves until he was tugging half pathetically at the soft brown cotton fingers wringing it until the beds of his nails hurt. 

He tried to breathe somewhat steady, those hurried breaths up dissipating into the humid air only some dying sputter as Garak tasted his earlobe, drawing it between teeth, pulling sucking, every nibble a nearly orgasmic breath of his name in some perfect cadence that was some primitive pagan chant calling his cock up further towards the heavens. He felt Garak’s hand on his thigh just then, big, broad palm spanning the entire width of his slim leg making him feel small, vulnerable as fingers squeezed, not pushing fabric up but seeming content to massage, to rub, making him gasp Garak’s name harder, more incoherently until he was certain he’d elongated that sound into four breathy syllables.

And then Julian finally remembered he had another hand calling it up from that useless dangle at his side to slowly tug that fabric from beneath him. He guided Garak’s hand to that hem, turning to look at him with a heavy expression not sure the he trusted his own voice.

“Are you sure?” Garak asked that tongue flick tasting that air between them seeming to also punctuate that question. “Are you sure that you’re thinking with the correct… facilities?” He let his palm pass over Julian’s cock squeezing, caressing until Julian had to bite his lip hard and grab Garak’s wrist so that he could even force the words out. He managed to stutter “please”, eyes going in and out of focus as Garak circled that palm with a firm press to his hardness, making the slit spill precome between his stomach and that white fabric. Julian’s hips moved, pushing, his hand flying out behind him so he didn’t go falling backwards. He just barely caught himself as he tipped part sideways, part backwards, realizing that he was still holding Garak’s shirt, off balancing them both.

Well maybe a touch of that was Julian tugging a bit harder than he needed to. He was actually surprised in the back of his mind that he didn’t hear a rip as he skillfully slid his legs out beneath, not quite sure how he was able to do it. But he’d gotten used to those strange little things that his body seemed to know to do without his awareness. The crush of his one arm between them wasn’t entirely comfortable, but Julian was enjoying that artfully contrived spill too much to care. He looked up at Garak on top of him with a cheeky grin.

“Does that answer your question?” He said, a bit flushed at how breathy he sounded. There was an unconscious aversion of his eyes to the bed but he forced them back to Garak’s face, Garak lifting himself up, adjusting his position. There was an unreadable look mingled with lust or else Julian was just hopelessly over analyzing. He didn’t think so because Garak was strangely silent, some odd thought or another going through his head and that was when Julian smirked, deciding that he’d be bold and extracted his legs from beneath, thigh sliding up Garak’s waist.

He felt exposed, face hotter, as he noted there was a distinct lack of matter against his own hard length- just warmth... so very warm. _Of course, the Cardassian male doesn’t full evert his... his manhood until he’s ready to..._ that thought drowned him. Julian wondered if that slit, if that _ajan_ might not be wet, might not be swollen in preparation. God, it was already almost more than he could stand.

“Does that answer your question?” Julian repeated wondering if he might feel that stub of tail as well if he felt for it.

“One of many,” Garak finally said somewhat evasively fingers mapping the side of Julian’s face as if he wasn’t in any particular rush to continue, as if he’d rather commit his skin, the touch to memory. Julian wriggled, quite eager to be on with it and those light tickling fingers weren’t helping.

“Can I…” Julian shivered at the light touch to his neck. “Can I help you answer any others?”

“Perhaps,” he answered noncommittally, Julian feeling that other hand not having vanished into mist as he’d thought but now gliding up the outside of his left thigh making those hairs tickle, making him nearly choke a second time at the delicacy. Julian squirmed again, jaw tight. His head dropped further back, tipping, throat sweat sheened, convulsing while Garak amused himself with the texture of the hair on his leg not moving further.

Julian struggled for breath, that touch brushing over and over making that patch of skin sensitive and he twisted hips to no avail, finally freeing his own hands, working them around Garak’s chest to slide under his shirt to his back. Garak’s back was warm, the skin with the faint texture of scales until Julian’s fingertips brushed the ridges of his spine. It was then that Garak’s fingers curled in, nails, digits digging into Julian’s leg and he kept that up, feather light revenge, a wicked smile as he heard Garak pant and say something softly that sounded hallway between a hiss and some Cardassian epithet Julian had picked up only by chance.

“Language,” Julian whispered playfully as Garak’s head bent again to kiss him more roughly, messier. He liked that, he realized. He liked it quite a lot and nipped at Garak’s mouth in return. He reveled in the torrid response, another swear word, a duck of Garak’s head crushing his mouth hard. Julian kneaded at his back more insistently, feeling the play of muscles moving beneath his fingers, strong, undulating as he pushed up. 

His right hand stole lower, feeling Garak groan deep from the throat when he dipped beneath his pants to that little stub of tail almost like a stub of bone, like an elbow covered in heavy scales, cartilage that was supposed to be.

“Ha.... hsss..... fsssshhh....” Garak’s mouth nearly ceased any motion as Julian stroked him, tipping his own head then to taste Garak, teeth drawing lightly over the ridges of his neck before they disappeared into that shirt- accidentally at first, but then deliberate when Garak hissed against him again.

“Guls, naughty human....”

“You love it,” he sassed back, thigh squeezing waist and it was then that Julian felt the earth shift tectonic plates, his leg hiked up harder around Garak’s waist. There was a slow dragging grind that made Julian pass white over his open eyes not sure when they even fell shut. head falling back against the wood floor with a grunt, hands raising to cradle his head quickly. He let his vision swim back open some undersea daze passing as Garak sat back disengaged just as Julian protested.

“Really I’m fine you don’t have to-“

He stopped, seeing in that time, some sharpened time in a bottle passing that Garak had-

“Keep them closed,” Garak said just as Julian caught a glimpse, pants down, some undignified sex thing that still looked damn gorgeous, Garak’s naked prick- the text called it a _prUt_ , he recalled- drawn out from soft folding drawn taut to a magnificent dark grey shaft hard, proud, glistening with that slickness. Julian threw a dramatic arm over his eyes with a huff, feeling his own bottom exposed, cock still tangled in that damn gown.

“Don’t you think I want to see you?” Julian asked thinking that Garak really shouldn’t feel so self conscious when Julian was- as his father often bemoaned- a child that a good breeze would knock over.

“What makes you think that you won’t?” Garak asked with a drop of his voice, leaving no recourse for answer when he easily took both of Julian’s legs together and threw them ankles crossed over his shoulder, Julian’s ass curiously in the air just long enough for him to-

“Oh God...” The words were out when he felt that first slick thrust and felt Garak’s cock slide between his thighs and he swore he was never more thankful in his life for those long skinny legs when Garak groaned his name, cock slipping past his balls, hitting the base of his own cock rubbing, some monster thing surely to reach all the way to- _please... oh..._ said out loud he thought because Garak playfully chided him for his impatience as he moved slowly, deeply, Julian wishing he’d just shut his eyes instead of going for such a dramatic artist’s pose with that arm. He whimpered, free hand clawing at the floor blindly scrabbling the wood as Garak fucked between his thighs, his balls tight, so full and heavy he thought he’d break. 

“Yes... like that... stay... hsss... ssso... tight...” panted, thrust, words, fuck, some puzzle of words tumbled in his head as Garak moved wet, hot, faster and harder until Julian felt the smack to his ass and tried to move his body to match that rhythm instead helpless to do more than lay, pray, praise from his babbling lips as he reached down, body rocking, grabbing his cock leaking over his stomach nearly coming from just that touch.

Julian let his arm tilt, tip just a bit to see the tip of Garak’s cock, fat swollen glans penetrating that small tight juncture that angle make it look like it was coming right for him, and he wondered irrationally how it would feel, how it would taste pulsing between his lips with the same intensity. His hips lifted higher, Garak’s thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, Julian overhand, underhand, stroking himself hard as that beautiful prick penetrating him made him want so badly to-

“Ahh ahh ahh...” from his own lips growing louder almost like some second doppleganger seizing him to screaming thinking that this couldn’t possibly stop here and that if he was going to die it was going to be by some sinful sodomy because it this felt so damn bloody wonderful then surely everything else would be-

“Julian... J.... J” like that. It would be just like Garak stuttering his name as he drew his legs closer and Julian prayed right then dirty derelict for that load to shoot clear down his throat as he stroked, as he let fingers squeeze his cock near coming.

“Please... please just...” That impious imploring as Julian imagined that length lower, in a way he never dreamed before, clenching his thighs awkward, the best if Garak were to be believed and if there was ever a prayer answered in his life, he would later reflect it was that one, Garak holding him still, with a rush of heat, swearing, a hard _smack_ to Julian’s ass as he released, hot, sticky on Julian’s stomach, his chest, a few splashes hitting his open mouth salty thick. _Yess!_ It made his back arch with his own orgasm shaking, dragging him to that single point of heat finally allowed to explode, long, hard strokes what seemed forever as his arm dropped, eyes opening at last with heavy breaths. His legs remained upright, locked tight, frozen still even as he realized that Garak was no longer in the room. He didn’t think he could move them ever again if he tried. Not a single thing beside this moment.

If he was damned then so be it.


	6. Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian's father meets with a mysterious man who's none too pleased that Julian has vanished. Meanwhile, Julian awakes in the present and in the past makes one final request of Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that was a tad bit of a hiatus but this is totally not abandoned. I had gone back and made some formatting and continuity edits but nothing major. Anyone who's stuck around all this time, thank you and thanks to new readers too! C&C welcome on this monster :)

“Mr. Eddington!” The shout is whispered into the darkness with a sort of fearful urgency. The man who speaks the name looks around anxiously, cloak pulled down so far as to nearly obscure half of his vision. It makes it harder to see as he clutches the thick brown fabric around his shoulders, boots half dragging the hard ground beneath him. His eyes dart down to a sheet of parchment, two sets of notes- one with a code, the other with the man’s own scrawl hastily deciphering the directions. He catches the whiff of a stable nearby; his nose wrinkles unpleasantly from the odor. They’re too close to the south gate for his liking, but Eddington had assured him that the south gate would not be watched tonight. That doesn’t sit well with him. The message that was passed along from Eddington was terse, angry, and he didn’t know what to make of it. 

Naturally the south gate would need to be unwatched to facilitate their meeting but he still feels a stab of unease as he moves. He’d told Amsha nothing of the meeting, leaving her to sleep as he crept out silently. Eddington had advised caution as if such a thing weren’t inherently obvious! Richard Bashir shuffles once, twice, and then reminds himself that the name of the game is supposed to be subtlety. He wipes his palms dry on the cloth of the cloak as he hisses the name again seeing nothing in the darkness along the wall. His eyes begin to adjust to the shadows away from the torchlights of the main streets. He sees only the backs of the buildings along the alleyway as he unconsciously moves deeper into the darkness. The watchtower casts a large shadow, and seeing it empty gives him a chilled and haunted feeling. He dares not dwell on the method that might have been employed to achieve such an aim, especially with the main security force at the ceremony.

Richard swallows and almost decides defiantly to leave when he sees Eddington materialize out of the darkness like a phantom shade. His body locks frozen, a skip jump of his heart but he doesn’t believe that it shows on his face as he rushes forward. 

“Mr. Eddington-” A hand comes up and he approaches no closer. “I’m sorry I don’t-“

“You set us up, Mr. Bashir,” Eddington informs him softly. Richard recalls their initial meeting and there’s no hint of the earlier warmth.

“I… I don’t understand.” Julian couldn’t have failed. It wasn’t yet the third night as they’d discussed, it was only the second. So then why was he?-

“He’s gone Mr. Bashir. Your son Julian, the Sultan’s head physician hasn’t been seen since the first night of the tournament when he informed the chief of security that he was leaving the camp to go for a walk. “

Richard sees nothing but black, sight stolen and he isn’t sure if it’s hysterical blindness or some other mysticism at work. He brings a trembling hand up to his mouth, not able to see it, feeling the world dizzy with vertigo. No. That’s not possible. Not his Jules. His mouth is dry, his tongue sticking miserably, and in spite of his own innocence, in spite of his surety that he hasn’t done anything to cause the current situation he takes an unwitting step back.

“Forgive me, Mr. Eddington. I assure you if I’d any idea what you meant I would tell you but I’m as confused as you are. Surely you must see that I have no reason to withhold anything from you.”

He sees Eddington’s smile, the smile that he’d flashed the first night they met. It was conciliatory then. It’s predatory now.

“Ya know it’s a funny thing, Mr. Bashir. I remember telling you that we were looking for friends. Think you said the same. That you understood the fight for freedom, that your son understood the same things that we do, that his relationship with the silver tongued mud snake was no longer a liability.” Richard swallows at that, understanding dawning. He wants to speak the truth. He wants to tell Eddington everything that he’s sworn to Julian he’d take to the grave. Richard swallows again, crossing his arms tightly. 

“I… I understand, Mr. Eddington. But you must know that there are things that I’m unable to tell you by necessity but I can assure you that…” He trails off knowing that there’s no use to sniveling entreaties. Richard closes his eyes, knowing so only by the feel of his eyelids as he squeezes them tightly. His head tips back looking up to the pale moonlight. 

“We know that Elim Garak was the assassin that night, Mr. Bashir. Do you really think that we would risk everything on a wild card?” Richrd’s head snaps immediately back and he looks at Eddington feeling the blood drain from his face.

“No. It’s not possible that… You don’t… You _couldn’t_ …” His legs tremble feeling suddenly weak.

“That’s why we came to you, Mr. \Bashir,” Eddington says looking once more the jovial man who’d dined with him for supper. “We know. Hell, we knew then. We were probably the only ones who believed that a “dead Cardie” was the one who did it.”

“Even as… even as they hung that Borg woman, you-”

“And how’s a dead Cardie gonna kill Picard? Why? ‘Sounds simple now that we know who Elim Garak really is but…” Eddington shrugs his shoulders and then looks away. “You don’t think we all want the same thing? A free Federation? The Cardassian threat gone? To just be left alone? You fellas in the capital don’t see what we do, Mr. Bashir. You haven’t seen the half of it but ya know I thought with everything that your son told you-”

“Jules would _never_ betray the Federation! Not for that man, nor for anyone else!”

“Well then where has the golden boy gone, Mr. Bashir?” Eddington demands with a grand wave of his hands. “Where have he _and_ Elim Garak disappeared to?!”

There’s a dramatic whirl as Richard faces him ashen.

“No. S-surely you are mistaken he wouldn’t…” Richard trails off as Eddington faces him in silence. His eyes, his head drop to face the ground. “Ah, of course why should I be called out here in the middle of the night if you weren’t telling the truth? Of course that’s silly, of course Jules could forgive anyone anything of course…” He laughs a soft high pitch titter, pain gripping him tightly as he considers his life to be so small in the face of the greater good of the Federation. “Of course Jules has always been so trusting,” Richard whispers as Eddington steps closer to him. “Of course,” he says as he hears the soft sound of a blade, his hand lightly resting over Eddington’s. “Of course they knew that, you know.” He says it conversationally, almost to himself as he can feel arms moving closer. The blade stops, that pressure pointing into his ribs. The blade will go up, he thinks. It will be over quick.

“There was a word you were given,” Eddington says and Richard is tense. “Sloan gave you a word. He gave all of his children a word.” Richard doesn’t allow himself to pause too long as that name is spoken. His palms sweat and in spite of his attempts, his heart starts beating faster. That’s good, he thinks. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve never heard that name before.”

“You know I’d much rather be your friend than your enemy, Mr. Bashir.”

“I am not your enemy, Mr. Eddington. Whether you chose to believe that or not, it’s the truth. I am a father. I am a patriot- in that order.” His hands tighten around Eddington’s and he madly thinks to slip it in himself. But his arms seem locked tight unable to move. 

“Fathers aren’t my enemies, Mr. Bashir. Men of the Federation aren’t my enemies. You know how I knew you were a man of the Federation, Mr. Bashir? Well heck, why don’t I tell you? We’re friends, right? See, I knew, Mr. Bashir that I could trust you with the greater good, that I could trust you to help us real patriots out. I knew because there was a young lady, a real fine woman named Palis who settled with us. Said she wanted to start over after she and her previous employer parted ways. Fella by the name of Sloan... ran the Section 31 bureau we’re not supposed to know about… ran the program to train the special kids whose parents didn’t think they were good enough. Took in a lot of kids; especially kids from this part of the city whose parents weren’t so well off, kids whose parents live in the west corridor now same as you. But you’ve never heard of him, right?”

“No, I told you I…” Richard swallows and he knows as Eddington continues to talk that he needs to do it. Not to Eddington- he knows that he won’t be able to overpower the man but to himself. They can’t torture secrets from a corpse. His hands tremble as he holds them tighter. He can feel his abdomen expand and contract, is acutely aware of his chest and his heart. It beats so loudly that he really believes he’ll know it by feel when the time comes.

“Yeah, you don’t know. I understand, Mr. Bashir. I understand about family, know what it’s like to want to protect them. But see what I don’t understand and I’m sure you could help me out is… why you’d be so worried about the word now. I mean it’s there in case, they can’t control him right? In case you have problems… just a failsafe is all. Isn’t that what they told you? Why else would you give him to Section 31 otherwise if you weren’t a real patriot, Mr. Bashir?” Eddington’s head turns and his grip on the hilt of the blade seems so easy. Richard feels his hands slick with sweat as he looks into his eyes searching for mercy. _“I don’t hurt people by choice,”_ is what Eddington had said to him once. Richard doesn’t see the sadistic pleasure of a man ready to indulge in this darkest of desire but rather a man stoically resolved to do something against his very conscious. The pity in those eyes is what frightens him the most.

He almost tells him. He almost tells Eddington how Jules was sick as a child like the rest who’d been hit hardest by the desert fevers that year. He almost tells him how Jules wasn’t well, wasn’t developed, and how Sloan promised them a way to heal him. He almost tells him everything. His wife, his Amsha had always understood that everything he’s done was always for their family. Even if Jules didn’t understand, if he was too young, too close to see what his life was able to be whatever hardships… Richard swallows almost seeing… Not wanting to but almost seeing what it was that Jules told him in a moment where his memories were clear. 

 _“It was Hell, Father. It was Hell and I don’t know whatever I ever did to you for you to hate me so…”_ But he’d forgotten so soon and Richard knew he was a coward for never trying to ask, never trying to find out. But it can’t be too late for all of his failures. If he can protect this last piece of Jules…

“Of course, I am a patriot,” he replies softly, steadily. “I am all of these things that you say but I cannot do this for you. If there is only one wish that I can honor for my son, it is that blessed dream to forget… everything. If there is one last thing that I can do for him it is to trust his sense of right which has never wavered. You would do well to trust my son, Mr. Eddington.”

“Ya know, we have a saying where I’m from, Mr. Bashir. Virtue has a veil. Vice has a mask. Don’t think I need to tell ya Elim Garak wears a mask- an executioner’s mask. Do you know what happened to the rest of those children, Mr. Bashir? Do you want me to tell you what happened to Palis?”

“I don’t-”

“They’re dead, Mr. Bashir- everyone last one of them who was ever involved in the program. Every name, every man, woman, child… every dog, Mr. Bashir is dead. Those who didn’t fall to the fire were cut down by the same wire around the neck in the last ten years until not a single one of them remains. Every one of them, that is, but your son; he’s the only one of them left alive and I’ll give you one guess why that is. How well do you know Julian? How well do you know your son?”

“Jules-”

“You don’t even know his name,” Eddington says with a shake of his head, a soft laugh. “You can let go, Mr. Bashir. The blade was never meant for you.”

“I don’t understand.” He falters as another figure comes forward from the right, face obscured by the hood of a dark brown robe in the darkness.

“I hate to think of the state of our cause if our only allies were… unreliable, Mr. Bashir.” Eddington motions to the man in the cloak. He appears to be a Vulcan, but Richard is not sure. Somehow he knows with a sense of dread that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t speak the information. They’ll know. They’ll see it, and his son will be-

He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t waste any time. The blade may not have been meant for him but he drives the point in anyway, hoping that it hits his heart- that he’ll bleed out before they can bleed his secrets out of his mind. _I’m sorry, my son. I’m sorry, Jules._

* * *

 

_Blood. There was so much blood. There shouldn’t be… it wasn’t that deep. It was only a shallow little wound. It couldn’t have hit anything vital. There was the liver but for Cardassians… no, it wasn’t possible… there wasn’t the bile… he was sure of it but why was there so much red… warm… over his fingers? It wasn’t…_

_“Oh God…” Julian dropped the pick, seeing the dark red, almost black in the pale moonlight staining his hands. They were shaking. They were shaking horribly and he thought he was going to vomit as he repeated Garak’s name again seeing the blood pouring, pouring out, spilling down to the ground, staining everything it touched. It was hot. It burned him and Julian’s head shook wildly as he pushed at the cloak, fevered and frantic. He remembered that night. It came back so vividly that it made his hands slip in their grip, swallowing down bile in his dry throat, vision swimming, that sharp pain coming back to his head like-_

_“No… No… nonono…”_

_It wasn’t the desert. It wasn’t the rocks. It wasn’t Garak’s blood over him it was-_

_“No…” It was Picard once more, but it wasn’t Garak turning to face him silently, stoically peering out without seeing him. It wasn’t Julian standing in the doorway impotently, falling to his knees, watching that still body drop muscles automatically twitching and reaching for him. It was some sick mirror world where it was his hands that held the knife, the blade clattering to the ground, the clang clashing as he turned to the window and saw the watch towers with four lights. No, not four… there were five lights… But... But there_ _couldn’t_ _be five lights because there were only four were visible from that doorway. If Julian had been standing in the doorway he could have only seen four. The only way that he would have seen five was if he was standing where- The body was at his feet twitching, gurgling, and he was already on his knees about to be sick except…_

_He was no longer sick. He no longer hurt. His nerves no longer licked fire through his body and his head was clear, that cloud lifted as he looked down again at his own bloody hands._

_‘What am I seeing? What am I doing? Why am I here? Why are you there? this isn’t right this isn’t-’_

_“Garak?” he felt his mouth speak the words. “Why am I here? I don’t understand Garak, what’s going on?!” His mouth screamed the words without his prompting like he was reliving a dream or an old memory._

_“Julian! Stay there. Don’t move. It will be alright, I assure you but you have to be calm.” And then Garak was walking towards him from where… from where Julian should have been standing and Julian picked up the knife once more somehow knowing how to hold it perfectly balanced, his body acting on instinct, and he couldn’t’ stop it._

_“Garak!?” he screamed again and he couldn’t control anything, his body seized- ‘Kill the intruder’ “Garak, what’s happening?! I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening, stay back!” He screamed that warning as he arced the blade towards him feeling as if he was standing outside his own body, watching Garak duck, watching Garak catch him and-_

_“Julian…”_

_’I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’tdiedon’tdie….’_

_Everything blurred with water in his eyes like he was looking through a rippling pool. He thought that he heard Garak’s voice, but his head was roaring and he was caught between the desert and the palace, both instances of reality warring for control of his head and he was pushing at Garak’s hands frantically. He heard his name again. He felt himself being shaken hard and he could see a world of lights and stars, the moon all of a sudden nearly blinded him. He shut his eyes tightly because in any reality he could see there was blood and it was because of him and… and he forgot Picard as Garak said his name again louder. He forgot the fire. Garak was dying. Garak was going to die and it was all because of him. He had blood on his hands again and-_

_‘Again?’_

_“Julian!”_

_That final scream brought him back to that moment completely._

_“I’m sorry not now, don’t talk, don’t you see I need to…” He couldn’t move his hands. His wrists were caught and he was screaming in his head for his body to just work, to just_ _move_ _and he didn’t even realize that he’d started screaming it out loud until his throat grew raw. “Let go Let go-” until Garak’s voice cut through him again._

_“Julian, look at me.”_

_“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry please I…I have to-”_

_“Look.” Garak says calmly, far too calmly, and Julian blinked, trying to see, trying to understand what he was supposed to be seeing. Blood, why was there always so much blood? “Close your eyes Julian.”_

_“Please, I need to… If I close them you’ll die… he’ll die again…”_

_“Close them…” Firm but softer, and Julian obeyed, trying to breathe, praying for Garak, for himself, for whatever curse he may suffer for failing to do this._

_‘You swore, Julian. You swore you’d end this, you’d do this, you’d end this, him, make it stop.’ But he couldn’t. The moment Julian saw that blood, he saw in his mind, Garak’s eyes go wide, saw him slump in that waking dream, and he faltered. ‘I’m sorry, father. I’m sorry, everyone I can’t. I can’t do it.’ He was afraid. He was so pitifully afraid that he’d done something that couldn’t be taken back but Garak’s hands held his strongly, the same as they always had and he gripped them tightly, afraid he’d leave as many times as he had in Julian’s dreams. ‘That night… he held them like this… he said… no… no it was me I said that…’ Julian tried to remember but it kept slipping away._

_“That’s it… be still, Julian.”_

_“But if I don’t…”_

_“It’s alright. He’s already gone.”_

_“No… I need to… to…” He was sleepy, his eyes felt so heavy all of a sudden and he realized that Garak was singing that song to him. He said that it was a lullaby that his mother used to sing to him. Julian felt his heart slow down, and felt his hands stop shaking. Julian wasn’t sure why he forgot that until now, but he could feel that weight fall back on him and he sank further to the ground, half slumped against Garak._

_It was like that night again… Garak holding him, Garak singing to him in the dark room where he had… ‘He said… he said that he saved me… like I asked him to… but I don’t understand… I don’t…’_

_“Close them,” came that whisper again, that indefinable hiss of sounds that start to form in his mind as so achingly familiar. Garak wasn’t singing any longer but speaking. They were words yes, but not the succession of proper nouns, verbs, descriptors. They were words and numbers that didn’t seem to mean anything until his arms went limp at his sides and he could feel his consciousness slipping away. And then it was gone, and he could sleep again._

“Garak?” Julian sits bolt upright with a start. It’s still dark, the smell of clay, of sand around him and he almost thinks that they’re still outside. Except the air doesn’t have that night’s chill but warmth. There’s the faint warmth of one of those mysterious colored lamps the Cardassians use for light in the Underground cities of the north. That’s what Garak had said when he first presented one to Julian a gift all those years ago, the small globe, the colored glass emitting a warm green glow encased in the sculpted meadow like a precious bloom of night. Precious... right, nothing was precious. It was nothing but lies. Or was all of that a dream? Has everything been in his head? This night? This festival? His entire life? His head is foggy and he realizes that he’s been lying on a straw stuffed pallet more suited for Cardassian scales. He doesn’t see Garak anywhere.

It looks like an underground chamber or cave, the walls carefully but quickly excavated out to a small room. He sees a wooden crate at the other wide of the room in front of a small table and a few chests lined along one wall. He can see an archway carved out- likely to lead into another room with a light coming from there as well. Julian shakes his head. Odo had frequently commented on the Cardassian network of security tunnel risks and there was a map on the wall Julian had seen once of all known Cardassian tunnels in the desert but it would seem that some had still been missed. Julian wonders if this is for Garak’s own private use or if he’d merely come across some other predator’s burrow to make use of. Julian sighs. Obviously Garak isn’t dead… or he’s dead and someone else brought him here.

That thought makes a lance of nerves shoot through him. 

“Garak?” He calls out again hearing the walls absorb that sound and he decides that he’ll need to investigate. He’s forestalled by that need, however when he sees a cloak shuffle into the room quickly. The hood is pulled back, not to Garak but to Parmak. Julian blinks in confusion. “Kelas?” he asks stupidly as the cloak drops and Parmak is standing there in the cool of the room still wearing a scrap of a shirt and those long loose pants. “What are you doing here?”

“It was my understanding that we’re supposed to meet,” he replies sounding like he’s teasing a moment. “Mmm but I seem to have been delayed by Elim so you have my apologies. I would have hoped that he would have kept you sufficient company in my absence but from the look of it things may have gotten out of hand. I don’t say that for censure. I know that Elim can be tiresome in his own but I suppose in the end it worked out for the best. He’ll be fine. You barely scratched him though I might say you could have given him a bit more of a scare for his own good. He’s a lot more resilient than he looks.” 

“If he’s so alright, then why isn’t he here?” Julian ignores the drop of relief he feels at hearing that. He shouldn’t feel relief. He should feel anything for a man who clearly cares nothing for him. Parmak sighs as he kneels down in front of Julian and hands him a water skin.

“Elim has an aversion to small dark spaces like this,” Parmak tells him. “But that’s likely already more than he’d want me to say. Ah… secrets, secrets I don’t bother keeping such things myself.” Parmak tilts his head and watches Julian speculatively. “I’m not quite sure how much he intended for me to discuss with you. He hardly keeps me abreast of the things swimming around in his head. He might have even sought my assistance in providing some sexual distraction though he doesn’t seem to consider that I might find my mind otherwise preoccupied with the chaos from his rather thoughtless trick. Mmm there’s also the matter of the casualties as well but if I know Elim I would postulate that was part of his plan so… Serendipity, right? _Should_ I undress?” Parmak asks, seeming quite indifferent to the fact that Garak has likely murdered even _more_ people for some esoteric reason known only to himself. 

Julian’s about to say as much when Parmak holds up a finger.

“Of course, your resilience is different where those sorts of matters are concerned. Ahh not everyone is able to locate an inclination to couple in such circumstances. Still, I would caution thought before judgement, Julian,” he says sounding like an old mystic spitting sayings out of an old tent for some coin but… _You were going to kill him…_ Julian swallows hard at that and looks away. 

“You don’t understand what’s at stake, Kelas. You don’t understand what’s happening here. You don’t understand anything about me or Garak the way that you think you do.” Julian isn’t quite sure that Parmak understands much out of his own head. He watches Parmak push his spectacles up and look away with a sigh. He looks particularly tired, stooped, his long white hair a mess falling out of its usual neat plait. His mouth is drawn into a frown and his slim frame looks especially weighted. Julian realizes be may have to amend his earlier assessment.

“You once asked Elim to save you, didn’t you?” Parmak asks with a small wistful smile staring at some point on the wall. Julian opens his mouth to answer but he realizes that he… doesn’t remember. A lot of his memories are still a blur the closer he draws to that night- both before and after. Parmak turns back to him thoughtfully when he doesn’t immediately answer. 

“Kelas, why would you ask me that?” Julian questions him uncertainly. Parmak doesn’t reply right away but puts his hand over Julian’s. 

“You know there was a story that my mother told me once as a child. Ahh, right my family is gone, so we can forestall any questions there. Plague, a bad one and there weren’t any other survivors. I think that should cover any of those unpleasant points of conversation. I notice humans tend to ask certain questions in a certain order so I think that neatly wraps it up. So to the story though… you’re such a distraction, I can see why Elim enjoys your company. You’re easy to talk to, a mind wandering with a sort of happy aimlessness. But for the story now that we’ve dispensed with your tangents.” Kelas looks at him and his eyes are just as Julian remembered, blue like Garak’s, a bit narrower, a bit lighter but no less stunning. “I should preface by saying this is a rather common tale and a lot of my kin would say a warning against putting one’s trust in capricious Gods but I rather ahh… find it quite fitting when speaking about Elim.” Parmak laughs softly. 

“The story goes that there was a village to the far west that still followed the Oralian Way and they still performed the rituals to Oralius as was the custom. They were a prosperous village and had little in the way of strife. Now here my mother would pause and say “we ought to bless the state for out bounty”. Please keep that in mind should you recount this for others as it’s an essential part of the story. But where the state would provide us with aid and bounty from those more fortunate, the Gods don’t have that same sense of logic. So when one autumn the rains didn’t come and the winds didn’t blow the fearful villagers prayed to Oralius to save them. So he did.” There’s a pause there, Julian supposes for dramatic effect but he’s still not quite sure what he’s supposed to be taking from this. Only that he’s in here and Garak’s out there likely still furthering whatever orders he’s been- 

“And they were saved. The rains came, the winds came and ahh… well I’m afraid I’m not the story teller my mother was. She was far better at this but in the end it’s the moral that’s important. The village was saved of course, but the rains that came drowned their neighbors and the winds that came tore everything else around them to the ground. So in the end it was just them left there alone with their god whom they loved and who loved them above any other life in the world.” Parmak pats his hand and goes to stand up but Julian stops him. 

“Wait… wait I…” He’s trying to keep up, knowing there’s a point there except it’s still escaping him. 

“You know,” Parmak continues conversationally, turning away to fidget with the hem of his shirt. “I had asked that once. Oh, not to Oralius, they frowned upon that sort of thing in the camps and they were quite keen to listen for that sort of talk as well, but there was a time I would say, in a particularly embarrassing moment of desperation that I saw Elim then. Now you wouldn’t have recognized him since he wore his hair in a different style but he would stop in here and there and see how I was doing and check that I’d repented properly… Mmm I want to say for sedition but Doctor Medek’s experiments with Haze have fogged a bit of that. Ah, no matter, we endure what we must but I had to tell Elim, as I tell him now that I saw little point in forsaking my beliefs for something as fleeting as freedom but then he asked me something rather curious.”

“And that was?” Parmaks sighs looking almost annoyed at the question.

“I’d already told him that I saw a good opportunity to work with Doctor Medek upon my release but he’s dead and I think that perhaps Elim may have been a bit too personal with all of that but no matter…  to dwell on such things is foolish. … Mmm never mind me…”

“You had asked Garak,” Julian urges standing up, finding himself growing agitated the more he considers his position, his likely imprisonment, Garak’s absence and everything that-

“He had asked me to save him.” Julian hears Garak’s voice from that darkened tunnel before he sees him come into the dim light of the room. He feels a shiver in spite of himself, and feels a pang seeing the bloodstained clothing. He swallows it down as Garak’s words hit him. _He had asked to be saved… just like_ “-the same as you had, Julian,” Garak says, looking hard at Parmak. “And that is what I did. And that is what I will continue to do. I thought you were going to sleep with him, not fill his head with fables.”

Parmak looks at him calmly, speaking words clearly meant for Julian softly, as he meets Garak in that small space.

“See, Julian, that’s the lesson that my poor mother despaired I should never learn… that I should never pray to a capricious god to be my savior.”

“I’m a capricious god now, Kelas?”

“Among other things.” The two of them look at each other; only at each other and Julian feels strangely like he’s witnessing something far more personal than he ought to be privileged to. Of course Garak doesn’t love him. It’s obvious the way that he looks at Parmak. But it isn’t his feelings that he needs to worry about. He’s mourned a lifetime for Garak already and he still needs to make sure that even if his mission is a failure that Garak’s is as well.

“What did you do, Garak?” Julian asks far too quietly but still so loud to his ears. Garak doesn’t answer him and it’s only Parmak who continues speaking. Julian watches them embrace and he nearly turns away. Of course he knew that no matter their words there was something between the two of them far more than they were ever going to say, but seeing it was-

“See the State never asks more than one can reasonable give but ahh… those gods, those creatures, those men who fancy themselves to be on that level. Oh they ask so terribly much from you,” Parmak says. He kisses Garak softly on the mouth. Julian winces. “Are you happy now, Elim? That the two of us have hands as bloody as yours? I left them all to come here. Once I realized that there was nothing I could do for them. But you knew that would happen and I imagine the Ancients wouldn’t have let them suffer so. I have faith in you, my friend.” Parmak kisses him again and Julian feels half sick.

“What did you do? Either of you? Both of you…” _Dead? There are more deaths? Was I too late, was it too little is his Majesty-_

“I’m here,” Parmak says, still ignoring him, a hand to Garak’s face that he leans into with a small shiver. “Shall we go outside where it isn’t so dark and small?”

“It isn’t safe yet. They’ll still be looking. But it’s done.”

“Dammit Garak what the hell is going on?!” Julian is about to shove them both apart and demand some answers when Garak turns to him with a wry bitter grin.

“What have I done, Julian?” Garak laughs, running tired fingers through his hair looking suddenly weary and worn. He looks at Julian like he… like he used to, like he had the first night that they were together… like that with Garak on top of him, with Julian driving into him, with his hair a tangle and those eyes so open and- _Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Don’t remember any of it ever again…_ ”I was doing what I’ve always done,” he says stepping away from Parmak, a hand to Julian’s shoulder. Julian flinches but he doesn’t step back. Garak looks about to frown but doesn’t, just moving his hand. Julian takes a deep breath and holds it there determined. 

“I’m sure you’re only going to lie to me again, but what’s one more, right? What’s one more lie for your stupid human servant? What’s going on, Garak?” Julian asks feeling like he’s missing something terribly important when Parmak steps beside him, hand over both of theirs. He doesn’t understand why Garak’s acting this way now.

“Oh Julian, you really can’t see it?” Julian looks at him, at that earnest expression, old, so much older than Julian had realized but still so full and deep. “He’s saving us both.”

* * *

 

“Do you really find so much beauty in decay?” Julian looked up at Garak from the coveted green underneath the tree. The grass tickled his bare arms, skin at times overly sensitive, but today cooperating well enough. He no longer felt the need for modesty when there was no modesty, no dignity to be found in death. Today Julian had chosen loose linen trousers and a white shirt that left his arms exposed to the round of his shoulders, low enough to expose the collarbones that Garak seemed endlessly fascinated with. Garak still bemoaned such plain attire but it was comfortable. There was also a certain way that Julian would shift that would slide the fabric- around the stalk of a bent willow as O’Brien would say, but even he was kinder than most nowadays- which Garak particularly liked. Garak had nearly an equal fascination with his navel and he seemed to delight in thoughtfully tracing the lines of Julian’s waist, around his hip, teasing that dip with the tip of the reed before scribbling something else down.

Julian knew the clerics were clicking their tongues behind his back but they didn’t dare say anything to his face. His station was stilled secured by His Majesty unless declared otherwise. He could feel those eyes on the two of them now, a murder of austere crows flapping around the low stone walls surrounding the lush courtyard. Amongst them was a man, thick gray beard, indistinguishable from half a dozen others save for eyebrows so fierce and dark they seemed rather like two caterpillars claiming his face. _He_ had made sure to let Julian know that it was in these final moments that he would be judged the most severely. This was his time of trial, he had said and for all the world Julian couldn’t recall his name amidst the rest. Julian had snorted at that. Let judgment come. He could no longer work after blacking out while treating the prince for a head wound during some bit of mischief He was barely able to eat. He couldn’t sleep unless it was some soft song Garak would hum at him. He dared the devil to claim his body to a fate worse than this. 

Julian could hardly remember things in the short term which was a pity as his long term memory was never as clear as it ought to be. The memories had started to run into his dreams until he had nothing but the scrolls to keep his head clear. His head was barely even fit to be called “his” any longer. It was nothing but darkness, dreams, and Garak. Julian dreamed of Garak at the same rate that he dreamed of the man Sloan. Sometimes at once, that cold human face would bleed from the doorway of an ill lit cell to the bright beautiful room where Garak kept his artwork. And then sometimes it would be Garak dressed in black, the gloves always hiding his hands, always keeping that contact from him as he’d force his mouth open, force him to drink, force him to kill. There would be words, numbers that made no sense but brought him to life in such a terrible dark way…

Julian didn’t sleep much now even with Garak to soothe him to that state. He didn’t need to sleep to dream anymore but the dreams were always worse when he slept. Even then if all that was the worst of it he could bear it. No, it the episodes where his nerves were aflame with some sensitivity that made the wind itself a searing pain only seemed to intensify in those times of unconscious. And if he wasn’t trying to hold still for fear of that pain, then his muscles would instead lock still as a corpse. He’d lost count of how many times his eyes snapped awake panicked, his body stuck in stasis as if the world would pass by him in a rush of lost time. No, sleep was for the living and- in what Garak termed an overly dramatic narrative even for a man as ill as he- Julian was left to wait for his soul to be taken from his useless body to the land of the dead. 

“You do have a habit of asking such maudlin questions, my dear,” Garak murmured as his eyes swept over Julian’s body carefully. Julian wasn’t certain what it was that he was looking for- he found it hard to believe these days that Garak was merely looking for its own sake. Julian often had the feel of a wasting soul in the desert kept company only by a lone vulture waiting to take his eyes first. Garak was sketching him again and he turned away with a wince as even that motion set the world to spinning. Julian closed his eyes, letting the warm air move over him with a faint smile on his face. He knew how awful he must appear and yet Garak insisted on watching, on sketching him as solicitously as the first day he’d posed for him. Garak was a brilliant liar, a beautiful liar. It made Julian think as his eyes lied with their pleased brilliance, as his mouth lied with that curve, with that sensual appreciation, that the truth was absurdly overrated.

“You won’t let them take my eyes, will you?” He asked softly, only half conscious as he ever was, as if Garak were somehow privy to his nonsensical daydream. Yes, he thought, that would be rather lovely- if this was all nothing but the fevered dreams of a child still trapped in the darkness where he’d... The memory- no not a memory, a nightmare- slipped away far too easily with the feel of the grass beneath him. The dungeon of his dreams held no such comforts. His nails didn’t drag through dirt but rock, stone... cold stone... rats... always rats... occasionally some other dweller of the darkness, some stinging centipede, scorpions... yes, it was the sting of that carefully cultivated venom that- 

“They shall have none of you,” Garak declared, eyes back the page bringing him back. “Not your eyes, your ears,” Garak paused and Julian almost tempted vertigo to look back at him. He didn’t, but rather he looked to the stone walls for the clerics at the outskirts of the garden circling around like those carrion feeders that picked at the unfortunate souls lost to the endless sands. But he no longer saw them. Garak took notice of the line his vision tracked and finished that thought rather neatly. “Ah, you see, Julian, it would seem that you’re all mine.” There was an extra gaiety to that tone that he didn’t understand but he didn’t question it. Garak was the only relief, the only light. He was the only one who could calm the world for him. Sketch after sketch, some soft nonsense words and Julian could live forever in that blessed weightless limbo. 

“I am, aren’t I?” Julian said, the hint of a smile returning again and he almost dared the disruption to his delicate blood pressure with a sudden quick crawl up Garak’s body to rest his head on Garak’s lap. 

“You know, they say that you bewitched me. They say that you’re a _shaitan_ born of the wickedness in my heart, born of my sins to bring about my ruin.” Julian turned just so, feeling the grass tickling his stomach with a soft huff of rare laughter. The clerics feared Garak, despised him, but it was O’Brien who was one of the most vocal, the Chief Engineer so loud in his protests of Garak’s presence that Julian no longer doubted the man hated them both no matter what pity he might be showing Julian in these his final days. 

“Mmm, I must confess I’m captive as always to your honeyed words, my dear Julian,” Garak said as he set the sketch aside and shifted- the charcoal making a thoughtful progression down Julian’s neck, dipping down until it reached fabric, a dark imperfect smudge hitting the center of his chest as it stopped. 

“But if I were to consider your earlier question.” Garak sat back with an intriguing sobriety that made Julian turn his head curiously. “I would say that the frailty of our existence is the most beautiful. I would say that a man is at his most perfect when he realizes the limits of his own mortality. There’s a certain... Perhaps there isn’t a word in your language for it...” Garak trailed off and Julian snorted.

“You sound as if you’re saying that death is beautiful.”

“Not death,” Garak corrected, and Julian saw a carefully bound book in his hand- the new style out of the western machine towns. “Rather there is a certain... quiet dignity... that some men naturally possess that’s at its brightest in that moment. I’m almost tempted to allude to Kelas Parmak but if you knew Kelas, you’d understand that his... aura is not quite the same.”

“I thought you’d only known him for an hour,” Julian said with a smile taking the bait.

“I shouldn’t think I knew him more than five minutes, really,” Garak answered. “It’s quite possible that I’m thinking of someone else entirely.”

“The failings of Cardassian memory,” Julian teased knowing full well if any came even close to possessing his eidetic recall, it was Garak. The charcoal traced back up to his neck- the neck that Garak said held endless fascination for him. It dropped out of his hand to the ground softly, Garak’s fingers falling to lightly brush his hair. Julian’s smile drew out, eyes closing in that encompassing beautiful dark that hovered between the now and the land of the dead. He breathed in deeply, allowing his body to draw as much rest as it could.

“Tell me again,” Julian murmured with a yawn, “about where you learned to speak our language.” It was a fascinating story, a long story, a story that Garak never told the same way twice. Julian thought that he’d have made as fine a storyteller as he did a tailor. Garak laughed and Julian felt his body heavy, nearly sinking into the earth itself. Perhaps, he thought if he were to be buried here he might be allowed to remain if he were too tainted for Paradise but perhaps not quite sinful enough for hell. O’Brien spoke of that once- that place that was neither Heaven nor Hell but somewhere in between that he believed in. 

“I thought today that you might tell me a story instead, my dear,” Garak answered. Julian opened his eyes curious, finding even the shaded sun dreadfully bright.

“I think Jadzia once told me that my stories tend to have the unfortunate habit of only having one hero that’s just me in some other clothing.” Julian chuckled self-deprecating. “Narcissism is what Kira said.”

“Naturally the Bajorans are the foremost experts on humility. Ah that we were all born to such a fortunate caste,” Garak declares and Julian laughs softly. 

“Alright then, what exhilarating tale shall I regale you with today?” Julian teased content to turn Garak’s lap into a pillow. His throat rumbled with a soft purr when Garak deigned to make use of those strong fingers to slowly massage his temples, that pencil falling away somewhere in the grass for some errant insect to explore. 

“How well have I familiarized you with Cardassian familial customs?” Garak asked as his hands worked and Julian didn’t have to think much, the haze around those more recent memories lifting far more easily than the veil which perpetually hovered over his youth.

“Well I don’t imagine I’ll be ready to pass any tests but I suppose were we to emigrate someday we’d get on right well enough.” It was the first time Julian had allowed such daydreams to breathe their life into his words but he knew that Garak would humor him in his thoughtless fantasies. He was far more amenable to such things as of late.

“You’d surely make as fine a Cardassian as my dear Kelas,” he heard Garak say but he wasn’t certain it was a statement intended to be heard breathed a soft exhalation. He also wasn’t sure that was a compliment either, given the way Garak had often described him. No, that wasn’t right either. Kelas Parmak was a man _better_ than a Cardassian, Garak had observed and Julian still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

“Suppose I’ll know soon enough, won’t I?” Julian said wryly which a touch of that black humor that Garak found far more endearing than most. 

“He would certainly claim that there is nothing impossible in this world.”

“So you’ve heard from a friend of a friend.”

“Your mind is a marvel, Julian, and that is exactly why I wish to preserve as much of that mind as possible.”

“Seeing as how I’m not a Trill, I don’t see how. Unless you’re going to get after me to write a novel like Jadzia has. You know I can’t focus well enough for that much writing. I don’t know what I’d write at that. I don’t think anyone really wants to read of the misadventures of the infamous palace sodomite that was once a doctor.”

“I think you underestimate the fascination that your story has my dear,“ Garak rebuked him softly as his hands ceased their motion. Julian thought he heard the pencil taken back up along with a scroll. He could feel the pinpricks of the bright day behind his eyelids and he was reluctant to open them to look. “Have I a chance to discuss our custom of _shri’tal_?” Julian thought a moment, but the term was completely alien to him.

“Mmm... No, that’s a new one. Is it some sort of Cardassian autobiography?”

“One might say that but it’s a record that contains far more... relevant information than the games you used to play as a child.”

“Like what?” There was a pause and Julian could bring Garak’s mischievous countenance to his mind with stunning clarity. Where images blurred and memories played tricks with him it was a constant. Garak’s voice was a constant and he was afraid he’d missed something until he heard that voice drowning out any ambient sounds.

“Your secrets, Julian,” the response came in a whisper. That whisper of Garak’s that was so soft he himself could not hear but delighted him for he knew that Julian somehow could. 

“I don’t have any secrets,” Julian answered automatically, softly, suddenly feeling Garak’s heat, the heat of his face near his lips and he lifted his head up, eyes still closed to breathe in that scent and add with a faint waver of his voice. “-not from you I mean.” He was sure there was nothing that he hadn’t told Garak, no dream, no desire too small or too dark for him to… to hands on his head, his face again.

“That’s the beauty of the mind, I’ve found. It has an incredible ability to hold secrets even from its owner,” Garak gave a tender stroke of his cheek, moved following up the side of his face to his forehead. Julian imagines his hair free, tickling his face and how nice that might feel. He sighed. 

“Then how would one unlock the secrets of the mind?” he asked thinking of the jumbled mess that was his head. “I can’t even... I can’t...”

“Shh…” Garak hushed against his skin. “Let me show you, Julian. Let me make you feel better. Let me take your secrets so that you may pass freely into the next life without those burdens. Would you like that, my Julian? Have you finally decided that you’d like me to save you?”

Julian wasn’t sure why- if it was some residual effect from the pain of the attack or not, his heart feeling as if it had stopped a few moments- but there were tears running down his face. Garak had asked the question before too, when the pain started. _“Is there any price you would consider too high to save your life? Say I had the power of the Ancients to reverse the sands, to redistribute life would you do anything to make it stop?”_ But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t agree to it.

“Perhaps you really are the darkness, Garak,” he whispered as Garak consoled him. God he was tired, so miserably _tired_ …

“Is it such a terrible thing to be loved by a demon?” Garak asked to the wind. Julian thought there was a sorrow to his voice that he wasn’t often privy too. Garak never spoke of his past or where he came from. Neither did Julian. They vowed to be nothing but a new beginning for each other as they laid on the roof of Garak’s building looking up at the sky.

Julian took Garak’s hand and squeezed it tightly, forgetting to be mindful of his strength. He’d always had a strength that his slim frame belied and he didn’t understand why that was. He was usually more careful of it but it seemed he was forgetting things like that more often.

“No,” he said fervently. “I’d rather be mourned by a demon than loved by no one. But you’re not a demon, you’re my-.”

“Then let me save you and your secrets both. In nothing but hypotheticals, in a hypothetical world where everything is possible and dreams manifest with a blow of magical dust, tell me that I can move Heaven and Earth itself to selfishly keep you with me.”

“I…”

“Two words,” Garak seemed to beg, and Julian felt a strange certainty that even in the speculative world they created he should never do it. Garak asked him once what Julian would do if Garak’s life could be saved by the sacrifice of a dozen men he would never know and never see. Them or him he had asked. Julian didn’t understand why he would ever ask such a thing. _“I would have to save all of you... or die trying.”_ He was almost afraid to ask Garak that question in return. It seemed they’d known each other such a sad short time, a blink in the endless river that was time, but…

 _“I would kill them all,”_ Garak had answered in a stark moment of candor that had chilled him. _“I would destroy every last one of them to save you.”_ Julian believed him then, too as he had drawn not away but closer. That night they’d made love like it was the end of the world.

Julian thought he heard Garak singing to him softly as his mind came back from the drift. His head still hurt. His bones, his muscles, his nerves wore that pain like a cross.

“Do you… do you think I’m already… damned to the fires, Garak?” He asked through that flood of sensory overload, even the light touches to his skin licking like torturous flames. Could he really endure an eternity of it? If death wasn’t the end but merely the beginning of that agony could he really-

“Two words,” Garak repeated soft, welcoming. “All you need to say are those two words” And if they were only speaking in dreams and what ifs then Julian could let go for just that moment. He agreed. His heart slowed, breathing evening out and he hadn’t even realized it had gotten to such a state until it started to die back down. Perhaps his heart would give out now, as he lay here and he supposed there were worse ways to die but… he just… couldn’t let that happen yet. Not yet.

“...Alright... you win... please… please… Save me,” Julian said letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, shaking terribly as Garak held him closer. “Please save me…” 

He felt a breath then, a touch of Garak’s lips to his as he feel into a deep dreamless sleep and heard him say, like some ancient _djinn_ finally granting its master a coveted dream, the beautiful haunting song hummed to him as he frequently did when Julian needed something besides the pain to cling to.

“Your wish is my command, my dear. Now be still and listen… And I’ll take it all from you…”


End file.
